


Solo for Two

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Music & Bands, Clarinet, M/M, violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After he was invalided from Afghanistan, John’s therapist had given him one assignment: to write. John suspected that she’d meant a blog or journal, but he’d quickly fallen back on old habits. His first love had always been music, after all. </p><p>(Or: the One Where John is a Composer and Sherlock is a Damn Good Musician.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Movement One: Largo

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so nothing explicit in this chapter, and I don't believe there are any extra warnings. Um, actually there's mention of alcoholism and a drunk driving accident, but they aren't really detailed or anything. Also, if anyone has any questions about musical terminology ever used in this fic, feel free to comment and I'll try to answer your questions! Oh - and note that I am a flautist, not a violinist or clarinetist. All of my knowledge of the violin is from my sister, friends, and the internet. All of my knowledge of clarinets is from my friends and the internet, also, so if anyone with more experience with these instruments has any corrections for me, please comment and say so! Also, I'd really appreciate a Brit-picker! Especially for tube system terminology in this chapter... Do you call them cars? Or trains? I know for American subways you call each individual compartment a "car" but I'm not sure if there's something else for Brits... And please note that I don't mean any offense to Greiner and his violins. I promise.

John Watson was a fairly average person. At least, that’s what most (average) people thought of him. Of course, those who had seen him in action in Afghanistan would vehemently deny that there was anything “average” about Doctor John Watson, Captain in the RAMC and one of the finest doctors on the battlefield. But John himself was quick to say that there was nothing particularly special about him – a complete and utter lie – but that was just the sort of person he was. His typical fashion choices only severed to further this image, his wardrobe consisting mainly of warm looking woolen jumpers. He often joked that the only thing distinctive about his appearance was his distinct lack of height. Overall, the sort of person who you glanced at and then walked by. 

But John Watson had a secret. Okay, so maybe he thought that it was a bit of an average secret, but it was a secret none the less. There were no murders in his past, crimes of passion, or illegitimate children with tragic pasts. No, his was a fairly simple secret. He wrote music. He _composed_ music: sonatas, concertos, a symphony, even. Not just orchestral works either, pages upon pages of rhythmic lyrics spilling their dark ink letters across a tattered notebook hidden in the recesses of his desk drawer. 

To some it might seem like a silly secret. How was it any different than the millions of bashful writers, keeping their hidden journals carefully squirreled away under lock and key? Or the clandestine poets who buried their diaries of sonnets and free verse away in their bookshelves, fearing ridicule? How was John Watson any different than all of these bland people, writing their bland accounts of seasons and social dramas, filling entire volumes with badly written nonsense? 

It was different because these compositions weren’t just a secret from the outside world – they were a secret from himself. A guilty, whispering secret that he wished he could purge from his mind. He wished he could purge it from his mind because every time he rediscovered his terrible secret his heart broke all over again. Cracked into tiny little splinters. Every time that notebook whispered the secret to him again, he was reminded why he’d stopped. 

He _had_ to stop. Some of his mates back in the army had joked about how “war was a drug.” And they were right – it was a drug. However, while it was a stimulant to them, it was a depressant to him. It was a sedative. A knockout drug. His therapist was always talking about how the trembling in his hands and the twitches in his fingers were due to his PTSD. Paranoia. Hypersensitivity. 

She was wrong. She was totally and completely wrong. The way he knew this was simple: they’d started before the war. All throughout uni he’d felt the tremors, the twitches, the curling of his fingers, his fingertips searching for the smooth keys that weren’t there. 

John Watson was a doctor. When asked what else he could do, he always said the same thing in a light, joking tone: “I learned the clarinet at school.” He wasn’t joking. 

He’d started playing the clarinet when he was in primary school. When he was playing hide and seek with Harry he’d stumbled across a strange case in his grandparents’ attic. Being the curious eight year old he was, he’d opened the case to find… something. It was black and silver and it was split up into five different pieces. Young John had promptly forgotten that he was supposed to be looking for his big sister in favor of observing this strange new object, turning the parts over in his hands, pressing down on the shiny silver buttons. That was how his grandfather had found him an hour later, still marveling over the new toy. His grandfather had laughed and explained that it was a musical instrument. He then gently took the pieces and constructed them into a strange oblong object that looked like the little recorder that Harry had been given for her sixth birthday. John had surreptitiously taken the recorder once Harry had outgrown it, but _this_. This was even better. 

John’s grandfather had still remembered a little bit about how to play the clarinet from when he’d played it back when he was much younger. However, John soon surpassed his grandfather’s basic knowledge of the instrument and wanted to learn more. So on his first day of year four in primary school, he had slipped away after school to go find the sixth year music teacher, who he proceeded to tell, quite firmly, that he wanted to play the clarinet. The teacher had humored him at first, obviously amused by his determination, but not taking him all too seriously. She’s taken a clarinet case from the shelf and told him that if he could figure out how to put together the clarinet then she’d teach him. John had given her a ‘look’ before telling her that he had his very own clarinet thank you very much. He’d pulled out his grandfather’s clarinet and proceeded to play a (slightly squeaky) C major scale. 

Needless to say, he started taking official lessons. 

Playing the clarinet became his life. He practiced religiously and once in year eleven he was nearly kicked off the rugby team because he’d been missing too many games for recitals and concerts. He spent much of his free time in one of the music classrooms, fooling around with his clarinet and trying to play things by ear. In year eight he decided that if playing one instrument was so amazing, that it would be even better to play _two_. He started taking piano lessons that year, and while they weren’t as great as playing the clarinet, they were still fun. It wasn’t until year ten that he started trying to compose pieces, but once he started he found that he couldn’t stop. 

But then disaster struck. John should have known it was coming, he really should have. As he grew older, his parents were finding his insistence on becoming a professional clarinet player less and less cute. John hadn’t missed the way his mother would pointedly ask “Well, what about math class? You like math class, don’t you? And how about biology? You did well on your last test.” 

Those weren’t what caused the catastrophe, though. No, that was all his sister. He was sixteen when it happened. He’d just come from his clarinet lesson when he heard the shouting. Harry had been kicked out of uni because she’d disrupted class with her “inebriated behavior” one too many times. The last time John could remember his parents this mad was when Harry had been in year eleven and they’d found her passed out on the kitchen floor from drinking too much at a friend’s party that she’d snuck out to. 

A week after coming back from uni, Harry got into a car accident. Harry broke two of her ribs and the other person had a concussion, but they were otherwise fine. Both cars had been totaled, but everyone was mostly just glad that no one had died. Then they found the smashed bottles in Harry’s car, half a dozen of them and nearly all of them empty. 

Their parents had insisted that Harry attend rehab. The next few months were rocky and John wasn’t sure exactly how to interact with his sister. The day after Harry got out of rehab, they’d all sat down together to have a serious talk about Harry’s future. John initially wasn’t sure why he’d been forced to sit through the meeting, but it soon became quite apparent that while his parents had said they were going to talk about Harry’s future, it was just as much about John’s future. 

It was then that their parents revealed that they’d been having a bit of financial trouble lately. The extensive car repairs hadn’t helped. 

John decided that there was only one thing he could do. He threw himself into his school studies, particularly math and science. He trained for rugby with a newfound rigor. Meanwhile, he found less and less time to practice his clarinet. If he was going to get a nice, stable job to help his family with, then he certainly wasn’t going to go into music. When searching through scholarships, he found that if you became an army doctor, you could help get your medical schooling paid for. It seemed like the perfect fit. He’d get through uni with exemplary scores and then get through medical school on the army’s paycheck. 

He’d have to learn to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to ever become a professional clarinetist or composer. So on the day that John Watson graduated from sixth form, he put his clarinet in the very back of his closet and left it there in the dark along with all his music and his tattered notebook of all the songs he’d composed in the past four years. 

But now, invalided from Afghanistan with a limp and a tremor, he was staring at a fresh white page, crisp and perfect. Staff paper. He’d bought it on a whim. He’d been in the bookstore, trying to find something to alleviate his crushing boredom, when he stumbled upon it. It was on the discount shelf, half hidden behind a Russian murder mystery and it had a god awful puce colored cover, but John found himself buying it anyway. And now he was looking down at it, pen in his hand as his therapist’s words reverberated in his head. 

She’s given him one simple instruction: to write. To write about how he was feeling. About what frustrated him about civilian life. About his nightmares. About the emptiness building inside him. John suspected that she’d meant a blog or a journal, but he’s quickly fallen back on old habits. He’s always found it so much easier to express himself through music, the medium so much more fluid and private than the bluntness of writing. So he started composing, the emptiness leeching out of him through the pen, splattered and blotched over the no longer pristine page. John didn’t bother to pause until his hand began to cramp up. He looked over at his clock, surprised to notice that it had been nearly three hours since he’d started. He put the pen down and stood up from his chair, stretching, before waking over to his bed. 

John Watson slept more soundly than he had in years. 

\---

John stood in front of the large glass windows of a pawnshop, on the way back from buying groceries. His eyes were fixed on an object just beyond the smooth glass – a shiny, sleek Yamaha clarinet. His eyes strayed to the price tag. £300. He really didn’t have the money for the instrument, despite the discount, with his meager army pension. But it was just so… Even just by looking at it through the glass he could tell it was markedly different from his grandfather’s old Leblanc. Not wood – plastic – but still in good shape. Almost new, despite the fact that it was being sold secondhand. Not particularly high end, but probably the best he’d get for that price. 

John was completely torn. He’d already filled up what seemed like a quarter of the notebook with compositions, but he hadn’t yet had the chance to really hear what they sounded like. Oh, he knew in his head what they _should_ be like, but more often than not, the actual sound was slightly different, sometimes in a good way and sometimes in a bad way. The music was often easier to work out on the piano, but he didn’t have access to a piano at the moment and there was no way he had enough money to buy a _piano_ if he was struggling over whether it would be worth it to buy a clarinet. He could always just get a cheap, plastic recorder, but there’s no way it would capture the right sound quality. 

Of course, what he really wanted with his grandfather’s old Leblanc clarinet. _His_ old Leblanc clarinet. It was honestly rather amazing that it had stayed in such good condition for so long with the amount that John used it, especially considering the way he’d dragged it around everywhere with him when he was little. He’d taken good care of it, of course, but even then it should have become much more worn out. Somehow it’d survived, though. 

But it wasn’t his anymore. During his first year of med school, he’d become extremely adept at stuffing all of his music related feelings into a neat little box and locking them away. However, one day his mother called him up to ask him if he’d mind it if she sold that dusty old clarinet of his. John had kept his voice steady and said sure. What did it matter if he wasn’t actually using it? It was just sentimental, after all. 

Now he really wished he had it. He stared in the window for a few more moments before closing his eyes and counting back from ten slowly. Cliché, but effective. He then opened his eyes again and walked on by. He should be focusing on finding a new job, not writing music. 

John quickly walked down the stairs to the tube, carrying his groceries and resolutely not thinking about the clarinet in the pawnshop window. He swiped his oyster card, hurrying through to the train. While he waited, he occupied himself with listing off all of the ingredients he needed to make dinner, and when thoughts of his latest composition began to trickle in, he resolutely went through each step of the recipe. 

He quickly boarded the train as it came to a stop, moving into the middle of the already decently full carriage and holding onto a handrail. He waited for a few moments for the car to start moving again, however he was becoming increasingly distracted by thoughts of that beautiful clarinet wasting away in the shop window. Would someone else buy it? Or would they, like him, just walk on by, day after day? If it was bought, would its new owner appreciate it? Would they be an older player, remembering when they used to play back in the day? Or would they be a young child, first discovering the joy of music? 

John was distracted from his thoughts as he slowly noticed that the doors of the carriage still hadn’t closed. Was something wrong with the train? He waited patiently for a few more moments, but the doors stayed open. 

And he was still thinking about that clarinet. 

John closed his eyes again, trying to calm himself. Instead, he found himself thinking of nothing but that clarinet again. Of playing _any_ clarinet again. When he opened his eyes again, John found himself automatically striding towards the doors of the train. He was halfway out of the doors when he remembered his groceries and bag still sitting on the floor of carriage. He hurried back to get them, turning around to find the doors finally closing. He sprinted towards the doors, just barely managing to escape the carriage before they closed. 

He hurried back up the stairs and out onto the London streets, trying to remember which direction the pawnshop was in. He spotted it on the street corner and set off towards it at a brisk pace, hoping they weren’t closed – he’d been too absorbed in looking at the clarinet in the window to really see if they were open in the first place. 

He went inside. When he emerged again, his bag was heavier with the weight of the clarinet. Maybe that was why he didn’t notice that it was actually a little lighter than it had been before. 

Lying forgotten on the floor of the tube carriage was his notebook. 

\---

Sherlock Holmes was not having a very good day. Not at _all_. His normal violin – his beautiful Stradivarius – was currently in for repairs at Angelo’s shop. His decision to help prove that Angelo had not, in fact, stolen his customer’s Guarneri violin had certainly paid off in the long run, and while Sherlock did most of his violin maintenance himself, there were some cases in which it was better for him to go to a professional, which, he had to admit to himself, he was not. He was a professional _violinist_. 

Of course, this maintenance always took a few days, during which he was forced to use a different violin. His idiotic brother was always trying to get him to play new violins from contemporary makers, but Sherlock always despised their sound quality and the way they felt under his fingers. The Greiner violin was the latest thrust upon him, rumored to have a sound that rivaled the old masters’. The only way Sherlock could describe it was utterly _hateful_. Logically, it was hardly the violin’s fault. If any other violinist was given an old master and the Greiner and told to play both and choose, the Greiner had more than a fair chance. It just wasn’t the violin that Sherlock had been playing for years. To him, it didn’t feel right. 

Sherlock had been playing the violin since age three. While many of his primary school classmates had been astounded by this fact, Sherlock found it hardly unordinary. After all, many preeminent violin virtuosos started at that age. Sherlock was hardly ahead of the curve. 

His story was not particularly dramatic – not like the famous Israeli violinist Itzhak Pearlman, who was rejected from Shulamit Conservatory at age three for being “too small to hold a violin.” His mother had been more than proficient in the violin, having learned after she found the Stradivarius in a flea market while traveling in southern Italy. Sherlock quickly fell in love with the sound of her playing, and became determined to get a hold of the magnificent violin. Of course, his clever mother caught onto his plot, and placated him with a proper 1/16 size violin – one he could hold without falling over. She then told him that she would give him the Stradivarius when she deemed him proficient enough. Sherlock threw himself into practicing, and when he was thirteen, his mother presented him with his prize. 

So, having played the magnificent instrument for so many years, the Greiner just couldn’t compare. This was a sentiment he’d expressed quite clearly today when he’d smashed the violin into the floor, shattering it into tiny splinters. He’d been quite satisfied with the results. His brother had not. And now he was trying to get a cab back to his flat from Abbey Road Studios and none of the imbeciles would take him! He suspected that had to do with the fact that he was a little rumpled from being up for three days straight, practically living in the recording studio, and the fact that he was holding a splintered violin with some surprisingly sharp edges. 

He’d been forced to take the tube. 

The carriage he was on was nearly empty, probably because it was just about midnight, but there were still two other people nearby, neither even bothering to glance at the disheveled man with the broken violin on the other side of the carriage. There weren’t any stops between the St. John’s Wood and Baker Street tube stations, but Sherlock still found himself taking in the details of the carriage, bored already despite the short duration of the trip. 

The scruffy looking notebook lying forgotten on the floor caught his eye. He could tell even from his current distance away from it that it had no business lying on the floor of the carriage. It was well used – important. Or at least sentimentally important. He didn’t entirely understand sentiment (except for when it came to his violin) but it was simple to tell from the ink splotches and worn binding that it was used quite frequently. Sherlock couldn’t help but find this a little odd, considering the state of the cover suggested that it had been purchased, or at least first used, rather recently. 

Sherlock leaned forward and plucked it up off the ground. He flipped open the book and was immediately intrigued by what he found. _Music_ – handwritten. Someone’s unpublished compositions. He skimmed the notes, becoming increasingly intrigued with the rhythms and notation. He began mulling it over in his head, trying to work out how the music would sound, how it would flow and how it would harmonize. A quick glance to the sloppily written notes in the margins revealed it to be written for clarinet. 

Interesting. Instrumental and classical composers were becoming more and more infrequent now a days, many aspiring composers throwing themselves into the pop music industry, writing increasingly melodramatic drivel about petty lovers’ spats. 

Sherlock turned the page and his heart beat faster, eyes flying over the scrawling handwriting covering the paper. Not just a piece for clarinet, then – a clarinet _concerto_. His fingertips traced over the dried ink of the beginnings of the violin parts. Turning to the next page revealed the cello and viola notations, the next flute and oboe. The violinist flipped through the pages, seeing the fully constructed parts for all of the standard orchestral instruments before coming across clarinet and violin duets, piano sonatas, and even a solo violin piece, half finished. 

The violinist looked up only to realize that the carriage doors had already closed and it was starting to move again. He’d been so absorbed in the notebook that he’d missed his stop. He’d have to get off at Bond Street and get back on the train going the other way. Damn. 

By the time that Sherlock finally arrived back at 221B Baker Street, he’d read through the notebook twice in detail. He’d been disappointed to find that more than half of the pages were still blank, but he still had a reasonable amount to work with. It would satisfy him until he had the chance to find the composer. 

Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf, placing the broken Greiner on the cluttered coffee table, littered with scores, sheet music, and far too many blocks of rosin, left over from his most recent experiment on the merits of different beeswax concentrations in violin rosin. He looked over at the shattered violin again as he placed the notebook on his music stand, feeling almost apologetic now for smashing it. It would have been his best option for analyzing the actual sound of these strange compositions, considering its rich tone quality, but he supposed he’d have to settle for the Nagyvary violin that lay forgotten under his couch the majority of the time – he only brought it out when he was desperate. 

He opened the case, wrinkling his nose with distaste as he saw the layer of dust that covered it. He drew out the violin without much care. Unlike his Stradivarius, it was not an object he pampered, and at the moment it was transport and nothing more. He drew out the bow, adjusting it and checking it against the strings, wincing at the horribly sharp note it produced, his deft fingers quickly moving to adjust the strings. He tuned the Nagyvary for a while longer before deeming it passable, playing a few quick scales to warm up before jumping into the strange composition sitting upon his stand. 

It was beautiful. The tones of the violin matched perfectly with the articulation of the music, and he even found his fingers stumbling over a rhythmic quip once, caught off guard by the unique twist. That did not happen to him often. He scowled in annoyance at the dynamics, though – far too melodramatic and cliché for a proper unaccompanied violin solo. Not quite nuanced enough. He’d have to talk to the composer about that. 

Once Sherlock finished the rudimentary sight reading he placed the violin on the couch, flipping through the notebook, eyes scanning margins. Where was the composer’s name? Had they not at least written it in the corner somewhere? People were always quick to brand possessions as their own. He looked through a second time and came up with no name. 

No matter. He’d find the composer one way or another.


	2. Movement Two: Andante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock gets an idea and runs with it. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Vague mention of violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to AnonymousBrit and twinbowser for Brit-picking my last chapter! As for this chapter, please not that I am not a member of the London Symphony Orchestra and therefor all of my knowledge comes from the internet, so I'm sorry if I've made any glaring mistakes. I haven't even gotten to actually see any of their concerts.

Sherlock was growing frustrated. He’d spent the last two days comparing the composition style of the music in the notebook from the tube to all of the contemporary, classical composers currently in London, and he’d even started looking into the non-classical composers, but so far he hadn’t come up with anything. None of these composers were _right._ They were all far too… _pedestrian_ to have written the artwork in front of him. All too predictable.

Sherlock sighed and picked up the notebook again, running his fingers over it carefully. His eyes scanned the length of it, taking in every detail of the worn binding and horribly colored cover. Honestly, _puce_. Sherlock hated any color that was even remotely pink, but puce was by far the worst of the shades. It was, however, a fairly distinctive color. It was also a color that was preferred by people of the female gender, as it was still considered a bit of a social stigma for men to have pink things. At the same time, Sherlock had done some searching in the internet to find that one of the few places you could buy this specific brand of staff paper notebook was the Harvard Coop Bookstore. Had a poor student bought it, not wanting to spend the money in a more expensive, better looking one?

There were also quite a few secondhand bookstores that also sold them, though, so it might not be a student. And, quite honestly, the student angle was unlikely. The state of the ink clearly told him how long the person had been writing for, as the ink showed different rates of drying, and the person had only been writing for a few hours before their hand had started to cramp up, spelled out by the few badly smudged notes at the end of each section. A student would be used to writing for extensive periods of time without breaks, considering the frequent exams they had to take. This person hadn’t been doing nearly as much writing lately, and therefore their hands hadn’t quite acclimated yet.

So how did any of this help him? He knew that the composer was right handed. He knew that they hadn’t done much extensive writing in the past year. He knew that they probably didn’t have much money – either that or they didn’t want to spend too much for some other reason. He knew that they were more likely to be female than male, what with the color of the book. He knew that they played the clarinet. (Obvious, considering the majority of their compositions were for clarinet.) He knew that they took the tube (the Jubilee line, which consisted of twenty seven stops). Of course, they Jubilee line also connected with all other ten lines, so he really only knew that the person had, at one point, stepped onto the Jubilee line. His tube entry or exit point could actually be any tube station in London.

As much as it irritated him to admit it, he knew nothing of importance about this elusive composer. So how could he find them?

Sherlock lay back on his couch, staring at the ceiling and steepling his fingers, trying to think of some way to get in contact with his composer. He couldn’t very well do it through the internet. It was far too large for the person to find his message in the midst of everything else. What about physical places? Did he know enough to determine where the composer was likely to frequent?

What was the composer likely to notice? He or she was a music enthusiast; that much was obvious. A _classical_ music enthusiast.

An idea began to form in Sherlock’s mind as he mulled over this fact. They would probably be at least moderately attentive to the London classical music scene, even if they didn’t attend every orchestra concert. Judging by some of the notes, though, they kept up to date with the London Symphony Orchestra, which really wasn’t all that uncommon for music enthusiasts in London, considering it was the oldest and best reputed symphony orchestra in the city. (Of course, the London Philharmonic Orchestra, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, and the BBC Symphony and Philharmonic Orchestras would probably all argue against the title of “best reputed symphony orchestra” being awarded to the London Symphony Orchestra, but they were probably at least the best known.)

Sherlock had actually been concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra for a short period of time before he’d grown frustrated with how inept his fellow “musicians” were and left. It had been shortly after he’d graduated from Julliard and he’d been young and hotheaded – naïve, too, to ever even consider that he’d work well in an official orchestra setting. He’d been arrogant and was more concerned with the prestige of the position, rather than focusing on the other undesirable aspects of the post.

He had not left on particularly good terms with Sir Colin Davis, the Principal Conductor at the time, but he was good enough that there were a couple of times that he’d been invited back to solo, despite Davis’ obvious dislike of him. The current Principal Conductor was Valery Gergiev, however, and Sherlock had somehow managed not to completely drive him off yet, despite the fact that he had been soloing with the London Symphony Orchestra with increasing frequency in the past couple of years. He still preferred to do his own a cappella recordings, but there was something to be said about playing in an open concert hall in front of an appreciative audience.

So it wouldn’t be too much trouble if happened to have “composed” a new violin concerto that he wished to try a professional performance of. In fact, the orchestra had just suffered a painful blow, as their first chair cellist had just resigned. He had been quite vital to one of the pieces that they had lined up for their season, and while the second chair could certainly learn it, it would probably be better to scrap the piece than disappoint the highly invested audience with a performance that, while excellent, was not that of their cellist of choice. Better to merely insert an entirely new piece.

Sherlock ran his fingers along the spine of the notebook, contemplating his plot. He flipped it open, turning the pages until he came to rest upon the fully completed clarinet concerto. It would only be a small thing to convert the clarinet part to violin, and while the sound quality wouldn’t be quite the same, it would still be an astounding piece. It would serve its purpose, anyway – it would certainly draw the composer out of their shell. Nothing called an author to arms quite as much as plagiarism.

Sherlock read through the music again, taking in all of the messily written orchestra parts. It would be quite simple, actually, to transfer all the parts into the music writing program he had downloaded on his computer and print them once he was finished. The orchestra itself would only need a couple of rehearsals before they’d be ready for the concert, so, if all went well, he might be able to perform the piece in an official concert in only a little more than a week.

Sherlock smiled slightly as he set aside the notebook, booting up his laptop. Just a week.

\---

John Watson was very frustrated. He was also, conversely, very relaxed. It was a rather annoying predicament to have.

You see, he was frustrated because as soon as he’d arrived back at his tiny bedsit, he’d realized that his notebook was gone. He’d checked all around his little room, retracing his steps from there. He’d even gone all the way back to the pawnshop, wondering if maybe he’d set it down on the counter or something and forgotten it. He hadn’t been able to find it anywhere. It really was such a loss. The whole point of buying the clarinet was supposed to be so he could finally hear what his pieces actually sounded like. It looked like that wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

He was relaxed, though, because he had a clarinet. For the first time in over ten years he had a clarinet again. He’d been rather horrified to find out how much he’d forgotten during his long hiatus, but after a few rocky hours of practice it was all flowing back, rushing back into his fingers, mouth, and mind. The tension just evaporated from his entire body the moment he started playing the familiar instrument again.  

So, really, while it was a shame that he’d lost his notebook, the clarinet more than made up for it. He remembered the general pattern of the music anyways, so he could always rewrite it. He’d even found a free online music writing program, and while it took considerably longer for him to write everything out, it still worked well enough. It would work until he got another notebook, at least.

\---

About a week later, it happened. John was walking through the park near Bart’s when he heard a familiar voice calling his name. He almost hadn’t stopped, half convinced that he’d heard them wrong, but when he glanced around, his eyes came to rest on the figure of someone he recognized.

“Mike Stamford,” John greeted, smiling at the other man. “It’s been a while.”

“You’re right it has,” Mike laughed, smiling back. “Now, what are you doing here? I head you were abroad somewhere getting shot at! What happened?”

“Got shot,” John answered, his smile fading somewhat, noticing how Mike’s eyes immediately darted to his cane when he said that, staring for maybe just a little too long.

“I’m sorry about that,” Mike said, looking at him sympathetically.

“Not your fault,” John shrugged, walking over to sit down on a nearby bench, Mike following him. “What have you been up to? Anything interesting?”

“Nothing much,” Mike admitted. “I’m teaching at Bart’s now, but other than that nothing really changed.”

“Same here,” John replied, smiling wryly at Mike. “I’ve taken up the clarinet again, but that’s it.”

“The clarinet?” Mike asked, suddenly perking up. “You like to listen to a lot of classical music, then?”

“Yeah, sure,” John answered, surprised by Mike’s out of the blue question. “Why?”

“Well, you see, my girlfriend was a big fan of classical music, and we had tickets to a performance tonight, but, well, we broke up a couple of days ago,” Mike explained. “I wasn’t sure what to do with the extra ticket, but if you’d like to come I’d be happy to give it to you.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John replied, trying to be sympathetic, although he couldn’t help but feel a little giddy at the thought to going to see a live orchestra performance. “I’d love to come, though. It’s a very generous offer.”

“It’s fine,” Mike said, smiling again. “You’ll just have to listen to me rant about my ex-girlfriend afterwards, though.”

“What are mates for?” John asked cheekily, laughing.

“Sounds good, then,” Mike said. “We’ll meet in front of the Barbican Centre, then? We can find each other on the Lakeside Terrace.”

“Great.”

John was really starting to feel alive again.

\---

John had to stop himself from gawking as he looked around the enormous concert hall. He’d never had the chance to see the London Symphony Orchestra outside of youtube videos, and just the venue was already blowing his mind. How many people could fit into this gigantic hall? One thousand? Two thousand?

It had been a long time since John had been to a professional orchestra concert. In fact, he’d only been to one before. His clarinet teacher – the wonderful, wonderful woman – had taken him to see the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra perform Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major. It had been _amazing_. He could still hear it if he concentrated hard enough. The [third movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0yV_mcthIA) had been by far his favorite, fast paced and lively. If only he could travel back through time to hear it again…

He was looking forward to this concert too, of course. He’d looked up the soloist – Sherlock Holmes – as soon as he’d gotten back home. There had been a short Wikipedia article on him with a few details about his character and playing style. John had grown practically giddy when he’d read that Holmes had a Stradivarius. He knew that there were modern makers now who could make violins whose sound quality rivaled that of the Old Masters’ but to hear an actual Stradivarius violin… It wasn’t an opportunity that many had.

And apparently Holmes was an excellent player in his own right. John had enjoyed listening to a recording of him playing [Khachaturian’s Violin Concerto in D Minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-VueNd1fF6g). Holmes had been concertmaster of the London Symphony Orchestra at the time. He’d quit shortly after, although John had absolutely no clue why he would quit that job. If John had had the chance to be the principal clarinetist for the London Symphony Orchestra he’d have snapped up the position and stuck with it until he died or was fired – whichever came first.

John opened up the program, his eyes skimming through the advertisements and acknowledgements before finding the page listing the pieces the orchestra was to perform. It was a fairly short concert – only about two and a half hours. Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 in D Minor was the first piece listed. Next there was a short intermission and after the intermission was another Russian piece: Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, inspired by the compilation of Middle Eastern stories, _One Thousand and One Nights_. (The [third movement](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9btjxS6QMUU) had always been his favorite.) Afterwards, there was another short intermission and then there was Holmes’ piece. It had apparently been a last minute addition after an issue with the principal cellist, but John was excited to see what the violinist could do. It was even supposed to be a piece he’d composed himself.

John looked up from his program as he heard applause to see the orchestra members beginning to file onto the stage. For a moment John was struck by how much it reminded him of the army again. All of the performers were dressed in their crisply pressed uniforms – tuxedos for the men and smart black dress pants and dress shirts for the women – and they took their positions on the stage with that singled minded, routine action that brought John back to the officers lined up in their dress uniforms, standing at attention in the hot desert sun.

Part of him wondered why these thoughts didn’t disturb him. He was quite sure that his therapist would have a field day if he told her about his love for music and how now the beautiful orchestra sitting in front of him brought him back to Afghanistan and the feel of the sun on his back, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and coating his hands. But for some reason, the militaristic quality of the musicians didn’t bother him. It soothed him, almost – becoming something startlingly familiar. There was no frantic beating of his heart, no desperate illusions, no PTSD.

John let the sound of the instruments warming up wash over him, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he took in the brief cacophony. His sense of hearing trained on the clarinets. He hadn’t realized quite how much he’d missed the rich timbre of his favorite instrument. John opened his eyes again as he heard the sounds of the instruments soften and the audience begin clapping once more. He looked over to see the conductor come out onto the stage and greet the audience with a bow.

Ah, it was Valery Gergiev tonight. That would explain the heavy load of Russian pieces. Gergiev was Russian himself, and was well known for his fondness of Russian composers. It was no surprise to find that he would pick both Shostakovich and Rimsky-Korsakov. Of course, John had always found the Russian composers interesting, personally. Maybe it was just the style of the music. He loved all sorts of music, but Russian pieces tended to have an emphasis on beautiful, deep, rich tones.

Of course, if you were to ask John Watson what his favorite type of music was, he’d probably reply cheekily with “Clarinet music!”

John sat back in his seat as he listened to the orchestra finish their tuning process, the principal oboe holding a strong, clear note above the orchestra. He’d never really been a fan of oboes, although that was probably because, more often than not, the oboe players you met in secondary school made sounds that were more akin to ducks than instruments. Of course, there was plenty of prejudice against the clarinet, too, considering how much beginners were prone to harsh squeaking. John remembered quite clearly how one of his friends back in school always made fun of him for how red with embarrassment his ears turned whenever he made an ungraceful squeak on his clarinet.

Of course, violins could squeak well enough, too. That went for all strings, actually. Flutes were prone to being shrill, and brass instruments… well, they could sound really _really_ bad when played incorrectly. Percussion actually tended to be pretty good, unless you played your symbol crash in the wrong place. He’d heard people do that before and while secondary school students typically found it utterly hilarious, the poor percussionist usually wanted to go hide under a rock afterwards.

John wiggled in his chair a bit, trying to find the optimal position as the orchestra grew quiet and stilled, the conductor waiting a moment before bringing his arms up, the orchestra waiting for his command like saluting soldiers waiting for the cue from their superior officer. It felt like everyone in the concert hall was holding their breath, and then the conductor moved his arms and they were off. Not explosively – quite softly, actually – but with tremendous power.

John sat back and let the music wash over him.

John quickly became engrossed in the music, and was startled when he realized that the piece was over. Obviously the ending was easy to identify with its dramatic, dynamic finish, but it had hardly seemed like the orchestra had been playing for nearly forty five minutes already! John clapped enthusiastically, a ridiculous grin on his face as he was energized by the atmosphere of the hall. Once the applause died down, the musicians began relaxing again and people started filing out of their chairs, taking the opportunity to stretch during the admission. John himself stood up, working the kinks out of his back.

“That was excellent,” Mike said, also smiling as he stood from his own chair. “Although I think I might need to go walk around in circles for a while to get the blood in my legs flowing again.”

John nodded and laughed, rolling his shoulder, wincing slightly as it throbbed, reminding him that while it was mostly healed – as healed as it ever would be – it was still injured and out of shape.

“Hey, do you know where the loo is?” John asked, after he’d finished working out the cramps in his shoulders.

“Not sure. Just look for the obscenely long line of people,” Mike quipped, grinning at John.

“Thanks,” John said with teasing sarcasm.

By the time he found the loo, there were only a couple minutes left in the intermission and he couldn’t see any line coming out of the bathroom, at least. As he approached the door, another man strode out, running right into John. He stumbled, his bad leg buckling under him, but the other man’s hand shot out and grabbed onto his bicep, steadying him before he could go tumbling to the floor.

“Thank you,” John said when he had regained his balance, finally getting a chance to actually look at who he’d stumbled into.

Well, if he remembered the picture from the Wikipedia page well enough, he’d just run into Sherlock Holmes, violin virtuoso. John couldn’t help but idly notice that he was quite a bit more handsome in person than in his Wikipedia picture. Of course, it always seemed like Wikipedia articles found the most hideous pictures to post in a person’s profile.

“Clarinet,” the man said, his eyes scanning John in a strange and slightly unnerving way, eyes focusing on the ex-soldier’s hands.

“What?” John asked, caught off guard by the strange statement.

“Interesting,” the violinist muttered to himself before brushing by John, completely ignoring his question.

John stared after him, as the strange man strode briskly away before disappearing around a corner and out of John’s sight. Interesting was right.

\---

Sherlock Holmes believed in coincidences. That fact surprised many people, but it was really only logical. There were, of course, many situations in which two coinciding facts did not coincide due to coincidence, but he certainly wasn’t of the mindset that there was some mystic power pulling the strings behind every insignificant human’s daily lives. Some things just happened due to random, unrelated circumstances.

Take the clarinetist for instance. The certain calluses on his hands had clearly shown that he played the instrument, and the ink stain on his thumb had shown that he was a writer who used traditional paper and pen (something that was uncommon in the current digital age). He had recently returned from abroad – the tan showed that clearly enough, although the lighter skin just above his wrists said that he had not been out sunbathing on the beach. Coupled with his military regulation haircut and rigid posture, it was simple to deduce that the man had served in the army. The clarinetist’s limp and cane along with his careful movements of his shoulder, how he’d flinched when Sherlock grabbed his left bicep, told Sherlock that he’d been invalided, probably more because of the shoulder than the leg.

And what did that mean? It meant he was living on an army pension. Therefore it was unlikely that he’d spend money on something like an orchestra concert. A friend had an extra ticket, then. So, really, there was no reason for him to be here.

But he was perfect. He fit Sherlock’s meager profile for the mysterious composer perfectly. Well, except for the fact that he was male, but Sherlock had never actually ruled out the owner of the puce notebook being male. It was just a little less likely.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, running through all of what he knew about the composer (which still wasn’t very much) thoroughly in his head. Once he finished, he was still unsure of whether the little soldier was his composer or not. He let out a deep breath, instead focusing on the London Symphony Orchestra’s rendition of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, letting the distinctive music wash over him as he stood backstage.

There were only a few more minutes before the famous symphonic suite would be over. After that was another short intermission and then it was his turn. He’d never had stage fright, he supposed that was just part of his character, but he always took extra time to focus himself before a performance. He needed his mind working at full capacity if he wanted to perform to his highest ability.

The next twenty or so minutes passed in a blur until he finally heard the orchestra finish retuning their instruments. That was his cue to go on. Sherlock strode onto the stage confidently, almost haughtily, his mere presence commanding the entire audience’s attention. The applause thundered through the audience as he gave them a crisp, practiced bow before turning back to the orchestra and making eye contact with the principal oboe.

A clean tuning note pierced the air and Sherlock let it settle for a moment before joining in. He had tuned his Stradivarius to perfection beforehand, of course, but he would allow himself not even the tiniest measure of error. As he neared the end of his tuning, his eyes scanned over the audience surreptitiously, looking for the clarinetist, or anyone else who might possibly be his composer. His eyes were immediately drawn to the clarinetist from before and they made eye contact for a split second before Sherlock looked back to Gergiev, nodding ever so slightly.

Sherlock took a deep breath and started playing.


	3. Movement Three: Presto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John meet. It doesn't go particularly well.

The world around John Watson had stopped. It was completely and utterly frozen. Approximately two minutes into Holmes’ piece and nothing else – nothing! – in the world mattered. There was nothing but the music. 

The music, and the steady, incredulous rage building up inside John’s chest. 

Because this just couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. There had to be some mistake here, because the notes he was hearing weren’t what he should be hearing. There was just no way it could be what he thought it was. He knew these notes! In fact, he could venture to say that he knew them better than the orchestra that was playing them. They were his notes!

Was he going mad? Had he finally snapped in Afghanistan and gone bonkers? Because there was simply no way he could be hearing what he thought he was hearing! It was completely insane! This was supposed to be a piece that Holmes himself had composed. This was supposed to be a professional, stunning work – not something written by a useless old army veteran driven by his PTSD infused boredom. 

It did sound like his piece, though. It sounded like his piece down to the very last eighth rest and major chord. It sounded almost exactly like how he’d imagined it in his head, all sweet fluctuations and smooth slurs. The only thing that was off was the instrumentation. Oh, it sounded marvelous with the violin, but it was missing some of the deeper, darker tones of the clarinet it had been written for. 

But how could this possibly have happened? How? It was just… just impossible. A world famous violinist stealing John Nobody Watson’s compositions and passing them off as his own? That just didn’t happen. How would he have even gotten his hands on –

Wait. Wait one sodding minute. That pretentious little bastard! He’d found John’s missing notebook, hadn’t he? Holmes had found his notebook and decided to claim the music as his own. After all, there was no way anyone would believe that a bullet hole riddled doctor had written music good enough to be performed by the bloody London Symphony Orchestra. No bloody way. Was that why the violinist had acted all mysterious earlier when he’d run into him outside of the loo?

Once this concert was finished he was going to march up there and punch the infuriating git! A good tongue lashing was also in order. Didn’t that slippery bastard know that you couldn’t just steal somebody else’s work like that? Did he honestly think that no one would notice? Granted, John was the only one who actually knew that Holmes hadn’t truly composed the piece, but the performance was being officially recorded and a clip would certainly be uploaded on YouTube. John would have spotted it sooner or later. 

Of course, it wasn’t like he had any real proof. He hadn’t actually written his name on any part of the notebook (a mistake that he would rectify on his new book as soon as he got home) and no one else had known about it. He supposed that if it came down to it they could do a handwriting analysis, but if they were going by word, well, it was Holmes vs. Watson. It was no stretch to believe that the music community would rally behind Holmes. It was only logical, after all. John would probably just be seen as some sort of attention grabbing arse. He had no solid reputation to hold him up, musically at least. Who would honestly believe that someone who hadn’t played the clarinet since sixth form could compose something that Sherlock Holmes would deem worthy of playing, much less claiming as his own? Absolutely inconceivable. 

But despite how John’s thoughts were racing, he couldn’t ignore the music. He couldn’t ignore the way Holmes’ perfect vibrato accented the subtle crescendo or the slight sway that swept through the musician’s body as he moved with the phrase. He couldn’t help but admire the red tinted gleam of the Stradivari’s polished wood or the elegant curve of Holmes’ fingers over the fingerboard. The notes were all perfect, yet none of them mechanical. As pale and ghostly as Holmes had seemed earlier, he was transformed into an entirely new entity when he played. He became so much more solid – so much more real. He’d seemed almost untouchable before, but now… 

John flinched slightly, startled as he looked away from Holmes’ long, elegant fingers, his gaze resting on the man’s face. The violinist was staring directly at him. His eyes bored into John making it impossible for him to look away. Holmes’ lips twitched slightly in a small, twisted smile which created a feeling in John’s stomach like icy fingers squeezing his intestines. Holmes’ eyes were pale, caught somewhere between green, blue, and gray, like he’d whimsically decided that color was boring and had whitewashed them until they were sufficiently ashen. 

They were also the most piercing, calculating eyes that John had ever encountered, and he had a therapist. 

Then, suddenly, it was just Holmes. The music had stopped, dissipated. The final note hung in the air in a sweet reverberation but it was fading quickly. The cloudy screen that had separated them was gone and suddenly Holmes’ eyes seemed more than piercing – they seemed positively deadly. John could practically feel the violinist ripping him apart at the seams, cataloguing him from the inside out as he dug his cold, pale fingers into John’s chest and examined his still beating heart. 

But then, right as John became certain that Holmes was about to rip the warm heart out of his chest, the soloist looked away. Applause erupted like landmines around John, his ears ringing. He wanted to scream, but sound had escaped him. The thunder clapped around him, slowly dissipating into a soft pitter patter until enthusiastic conversation eclipsed it. 

“Wow! That last piece was quite something, wasn’t it, John?” Mike exclaimed, his voice bubbling with coiled excitement. 

John didn’t hear him. Couldn’t hear him. He merely stood up, muttering a soft apology to his friend before beating a hasty retreat. Or, rather, a hasty assault. Because, goddamn it, he was going to find that crooked, thieving bastard and give him a piece of his mind, if not a piece of his fist, and damn the consequences. And to think he’d ever been excited to hear Holmes! 

John made his way to the front of the concert hall. (He would have shoved his way through the crowd, but, well, it was an orchestra concert. Therefore, there were a lot of frail elderly people and even if John Watson was marching forward to punch some bloody git in the face, he was still a fucking gentleman.) By the time he actually managed to get to the front of the hall, there were only a few people still in the room filing out of the doors into the lobby. Most of the musicians had also already left the stage, but Holmes, the arrogant git, was simply sitting in the concert master’s chair, loosening his bowstrings nonchalantly. 

John had never found a single action so infuriating in his entire life. 

“I would appreciate it if you let me finish putting away my violin before you punch me,” the violinist said suddenly, not bothering to look away from his bow. “I just had it in for maintenance. I don’t want you damaging it again.” 

John blinked. 

“So, I can damage your face as long as I don’t damage your violin?” he asked slowly, giving Holmes a slightly incredulous look. Sure, he’d rather have someone punch his face than his clarinet, but he’d rather avoid being punched altogether. 

“If you must,” Holmes sighed, as if the entire conversation was already putting him to sleep. “Just get it out of your system so that we can start discussing more pertinent matters.” 

John watched as the violinist looked over his bow once more before apparently finding it satisfactory, placing it carefully back into its case. Holmes then gently closed the case, latching it shut and placing it on the floor, a little ways away from the chair. He then looked up at John, pale eyes boring into him, the same as before. 

Seeing those eyes again, John’s scowl deepened. He vaulted up onto the stage in one smooth motion and marched over to the violinist before drawing back his fist and punching the arrogant git. The sound echoed through the hall eerily, the theatre’s amazing acoustics amplifying the loud slap of fist on flesh in a way that made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand on end. 

Hearing that discordant note was strangely satisfying. 

“That was…” Holmes’ voice said, shattering John’s momentary pleasure. “I must say, I did not expect you to actually follow through on that.” 

“What – the punch?” John asked, blinking in confusion. 

“No, the tap dancing performance,” Holmes replied, sarcasm oozing from his tone. “Of course the bloody punch!”

“Weren’t you the one who was suggesting that I punch you?” John questioned, frown deepening. 

“Yes, well, your body stance clearly told me that you were preparing to take a swing at me, and normally when I suggest to someone that the punch me, they become so confused that they never follow through,” Holmes snapped, rubbing his tender cheek where a bruise was already beginning to form. “Bloody single minded military types…” 

“Just be grateful that I didn’t go for your nose,” John scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. “I could have broken it, you know.” 

“Oh, you wouldn’t have,” Holmes said, waving him off. 

“And what the bloody hell makes you think that?” John growled, glaring at the infuriating man. “And how did you know I was in the military?” 

“You’re a doctor,” Holmes sneered, still holding his cheek. “You wouldn’t have gone for anything that would have done permanent damage. As for how I know you’re a soldier, that’s obvious. You shouldn’t need me to explain it.” 

“Are you some sort of stalker?” John asked, eyes widening. “Are you some sort of creep who gets off on stealing people’s music and taking over their identities or something?” 

“Do you honestly hear yourself when you speak?” Holmes asked, giving him an odd look – like he could talk! Pot meet fucking kettle. “And no, I have not been stalking you.” 

He sounded offended by the mere suggestion, his nose wrinkling unattractively. John was finding his expression far more amusing than he probably should. As unattractive as it was, there was a sort of bizarre… cuteness to it. 

“I merely observed,” Holmes continued haughtily. “I’m not some common criminal.” 

“No, you’re right,” John said sarcastically, throwing up his hands in frustration. “Most petty criminals know that ‘observing’ someone without their permission is stalking!”

“I have not been stalking you!” Holmes yelled, properly outraged now. “All of my observations have been done within the past half hour! I have not been following you home to your dilapidated little excuse for a flat.” 

“And how could you possibly know that I have a ‘dilapidated little excuse for a flat’ if you haven’t been following me?” John snapped, seething, moving instinctively into a more defensive stance. 

Holmes let out a frustrated huff, scowling, before he opened his mouth and began to speak again, his eyes scanning John in a way that made his skin prickle with gooseflesh. 

“Both your haircut and your stance scream ‘military’ – not to mention your strong, perfectly executed punch. Your hands are tanned, but only up to the wrists. You haven’t been out sunbathing, then. So, military who’s clearly been abroad,” Holmes said, eyes still boring into John. “Also, your limp. You were using a cane when I ran into you earlier and needed assistance standing when I knocked you over, however you just pushed through a crowd of people and vaulted onto a stage with perfect ease. Psychosomatic, meaning the original circumstances were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Therefore, you’ve been discharged and have been living on an army pension. That sort of money doesn’t typically allow for a high end flat.”

“I – that’s… correct,” John said, a hint of awe in his expression as he looked down at his leg and then back over to where he was sitting for the concert, the cane resting in his seat innocently. “That still doesn’t tell me how you knew that I was a doctor, though.”

“Simple. Your friend was a helpful hint,” Holmes began, a smirk beginning to spread across his face. “Clearly you don’t have the money to buy orchestra concert tickets, so he invited you. Judging by his attire, he also has a job that makes him quite a bit of money. That narrows down the list of professions considerably. He had also forgotten to take off his ID tags that indicate him as an employee of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Judging by his state of physical fitness, he was not with you in the army – therefore you knew each other prior to your deployment. Medical school would be a possible point of contact. Of course, your hands were what really gave you away.”

“My hands?” John asked, intrigued in spite of himself. “What about them?”

“It’s currently early April,” Holmes continued, a full fledged smirk now adorning his face. “Contrary to popular belief, Afghanistan is not warm year round. In fact, it can get quite cold in the winter. The climate is such that most people would wear gloves in order to prevent frostbite in the winter months. However your hands are just as tanned as the rest of your body. If you had been wearing gloves all the time during the winter, your hands wouldn’t be as tan as the rest of your body, as it’s only recently become warm enough to completely forgo gloves. So, you had a job where you needed maximum dexterity in your hands. An army surgeon.”

“That was…” John breathed, eyes wide. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”

“So you regret punching me, then?” Holmes asked, still smirking. 

“Not a chance,” John replied, a rather dangerous looking grin on his face. “You’re still an utter bastard. A clever bastard, but a bastard.” 

“It was worth a shot,” the violinist muttered, mostly to himself. 

“Trying to distract me with your little magic trick, are you?” John asked, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. 

“It’s not a magic trick,” Holmes replied, sounding affronted. “It’s a delicate science. Deduction.” 

“Stop trying to distract me from the fact that you stole my bloody music!” John exclaimed, his hair bristling like a cat’s. 

“I didn’t steal it – I just borrowed it,” the dark haired man said, frowning. 

“Borrowed it, my arse,” John huffed, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “You played it in front of a couple thousand people today without my permission and claimed it as your own. That’s called stealing.” 

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have had to resort to such methods if you’d just written your sodding name in your notebook,” Holmes protested petulantly. “This would have been considerably easier if you did.” 

“What do you mean ‘resort to such measures’? Are you saying that you would have actually given me credit if I’d listed my name in the bloody book?” John asked, looking at the violinist disbelievingly. 

“Are you really so dense?” Holmes asked, his tone condescending in a way that made John want to punch him again. “This was never about the bloody concert.” 

“It wasn’t?” John parroted, honestly surprised. “What was it about, then?”

“You,” Holmes said with such conviction it made a shiver rush down John’s spine. “Your music. All that matters to me is the music – the music and getting more of it.”

“Getting more of it?” John asked, voice flooded with disbelief. “Why the bloody hell would you want more of it? More plagiarism?” 

“Look, can’t you see? I wouldn’t have plagiarized if I didn’t have to,” the violinist snapped, frustrated. “It was all just transport – a way to get to you.”

“A way to get to me?” John questioned, confused. 

“Can you stop that?” Holmes said, glaring at John.

“Stop what?” John asked, confused. 

“That! The repeating thing,” Holmes said, waving a hand at John. 

“Ah, sorry,” John replied, a little embarrassed. 

“Yes, well, this concert – all of this, it was just to draw you out,” the violinist continued. “I needed to find you, and I deduced that, being a classical music enthusiast and a fan of the London Symphony Orhcestra, you would pay attention to their concerts. You would see me play your piece and confront me. I then would know who you were. Problem solved.” 

“So, your entire plan revolved around me getting mad enough at you to come and punch you in person?” John asked, trying to suppress a grossly inappropriate giggle. 

“The punch was not necessarily anticipated,” Holmes admitted grudgingly. “Twenty first century classical music enthusiasts tend to be a little more… docile.” 

“Yes, well, you’re lucky that I’m at least partially docile, otherwise your face would be in a right state,” John replied, unable to suppress a smile. 

“Put you in a woolen jumper and you’d look positively adorable,” Holmes said sarcastically, his tone containing a bit of a bite. 

“Well, I do have this lovely cream colored one…” John teased, grinning. 

“Oh god, tell me you’re joking,” the violinist replied, a look of mind horror crossing his face. 

“I wear it all the time actually,” John said, nodding. “It’s quite comfortable.” 

“You’re lucky your music is brilliant,” Holmes muttered, a dark look in his eyes. 

“What?” John asked, surprised at the violin virtuoso’s words. “Brilliant isn’t exactly what I’d use to describe – ”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Holmes said, frowning. “You can’t possibly not know what skill you have.” 

“You’re having me on,” John said, looking at Holmes incredulously. “You’re having me on, aren’t you? Because there’s no bloody way you can actually mean that.” 

“Did you somehow miss the fact that I just played your music with the London Symphony Orchestra in front of a paying audience?” the violinist asked, giving John an odd look. “And did you miss the part where I said I wanted more of it?” 

“Well, no, but I didn’t think that you actually – ” John started, embarrassed. 

“You didn’t think I actually meant it?” Holmes finished, his expression changing, looking at John in a new way. “You’ve never shown anyone your music, have you?” 

“No, but – ” John answered, only to be cut off again. 

“How many years have you wasted?” Holmes demanded, practically seething. 

“Wasted? I haven’t wasted – ” John shouted, his flattered blush turning into a angry and humiliated redness. 

“Yes! Yes, you have!” the violinist snapped. “You’ve been composing for quite a while, haven’t you? You have this talent, and yet you’ve selfishly kept it to yourself. How many musicians have you denied the chance of ever getting to play your compositions? You could have revolutionized – ”

“‘Revolutionized’? Can you actually hear what you’re saying?” John sputtered, his tone incredulous. “And it’s honestly none of your business what I compose or what I don’t compose! I can chose weather I want to try publishing anything or not. You’re the one who’s being selfish here!”

“It’s not about me – ” Holmes began. 

“Yes. Yes, it is,” John said, glaring at him. “You’ve somehow gotten it into your head that my music will become successful, and so now you’re trying to get a hold of it so that when – if – it becomes famous, you’ll also be famous, as the one who found a popularized it.” 

“What? That’s not – ” Holmes said, clearly affronted, but John was already storming away, ignoring him as well as he could. 

John marched out of the performance hall and out of the building, his teeth clenched firmly, grinding together in frustration. His angry thoughts were swirling around his head like a hurricane and blurring into one hateful mess. He clenched his hands into fists, trying to resist the urge to punch something again. His trip back home was a blur. He couldn’t remember anything but his rage at the pompous, arrogant, rude violinist who had the nerve to tell him that he had wasted his life by going to war and saving people from gruesome, painful deaths. 

He collapsed onto his bed as soon as he got back to his flat, all of his earlier energy suddenly draining out of him. He lay there for a moment, not thinking of anything, just numb, until he realized something, groaning and scrubbing his hands over his face in frustration. He’d forgotten his cane. He’d forgotten his bloody cane. How the bloody hell was he supposed to get around tomorrow? All of this was just such a mess. 

He lay there for a while longer, exhausted and trying not to pity himself or work himself up into another anti-Holmes rage. He’d finally managed to relax himself, when his phone buzzed. He spent a few moments fishing through his pockets, trying to figure out which one he’d stuffed his phone into, finally managing to dig it out. He had one new text message. 

I believe I have something of yours. SH

That. Fucking. Bastard. Oh, John was definitely going for the nose next time he saw Holmes. 

Come to 3 Abbey Rd tomorrow to retrieve. SH

Oh, was that how he was going to play it? Holmes was dead next time John saw him. Dead as a bloody doornail. Maybe John would have to kill him by bludgeoning him over the head with his cane. Poetic justice, and all that. 

Can negotiate terms of release for cane and notebook. SH

‘Terms of release’? What was this, a hostage exchange? Well, Holmes certainly was psychotic enough to be a kidnapper. He probably had a whole basement full of composers who he’d kidnapped. He probably wallpapered his bedroom with stolen unpublished scores. Christ, was he some sort of kleptomaniac? 

Ask for Lestrade upon arrival. SH

Holmes was making quite a lot of assumptions, wasn’t he? And who the hell was ‘Lestrade’? Was he some sort of diabolical accomplice/groupie? And wait! How had Holmes…?

How did you get this number? JW

Pick pocketed you when you ran into me. SH

You didn’t even know I was the composer then! JW

I had a strong suspicion. SH

Bloody hell. Holmes really was a piece of work, wasn’t he? How had someone not murdered him already? Granted, he was brilliant, but still! Forget him being psychotic, how had he not driven everyone else mad? 

Are you coming? SH

John glared at his phone, putting as much malice into his gaze as possible, pretending that his phone was the man himself. 

Could be interesting. SH

Yeah, interesting was a word for it. More like infuriating. 

Bring any new compositions. SH

John scoffed. As if he’d actually be idiotic enough to bring his compositions anywhere near Sherlock Holmes. That was practically begging for them to be stolen. Did Holmes really think he was that naïve? Despite what Holmes seemed to think, he hadn’t become a doctor by being stupid. 

And don’t forgot your clarinet. SH


	4. Movement Four: Agitato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John meet again. Welcome to 3 Abbey Road, John.

John Watson stared up at number three Abbey Road. He pulled out his phone again to check the text message. Yes, it actually did say “Come to 3 Abbey Rd tomorrow to retrieve. SH.” He was in the right place. Unless, of course, Holmes had made a typo, because there was no way he’d be let in.

After all, three Abbey Road was Abbey Road Studios – the recording studio made infamous by the Beatles. It was where Pablo Casals became the first person to ever create a recording of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Cello Suites No. 1 & 2 and where the London Symphony Orchestra recorded the music for Star Wars. It was where Pink Floyd had recorded, along with contemporaries such as Florence + the Machine and Adele.

Thinking about it, it would make sense that Holmes would have an in. After all, the London Symphony Orchestra and the London Philharmonic Orchestra recorded there regularly. In fact, even Itzhak Pearlman, the famed Israeli violinist, had recorded there. As a violinist of his caliber, it wasn’t much of a stretch at all to imagine Holmes recording in such a prestigious studio.

John on the other hand… Honestly, why had Holmes told him to bring his clarinet along? God, if anyone actually heard him he would probably die of embarrassment. He had been a pretty good player when he was in school, but that had been ages ago. He was horribly out of practice, and even if he were in practice, there was no way he’d be able to hold his own with musicians like this surrounding him!

Why had he even come? It’d be annoying, but he could always just buy another cane. Holmes had his music, but did he honestly expect Holmes to give it up? No bloody way. Saying that it was highly unlikely that Holmes would give him his music back was an understatement, and if John went inside… Well, who knew what Holmes would take from him or make him do?

John sighed and was about to leave when the door in front of him opened abruptly. He blinked in surprise at the angry looking woman with violently curly hair who stood in the doorway, one hand holding the door open and the other resting on her hip. She was scowling unpleasantly, which severely marred her attractiveness. John couldn’t tell if she was just having a bad day or if she was always like this.

“Well?” she snapped, looking John up and down, her assessing glare making John’s skin crawl.

“Sorry?” John replied, confused.

“You’ve been standing in front of the door for nearly ten minutes,” she said, annoyance dripping from her voice. “Was there something you wanted?”

The uncomfortable feeling building in John’s stomach intensified as he saw her eyes flicker to his clarinet case before meeting his own eyes again and he clutched it a little tighter, wondering idly if his knuckles had turned white yet from the strength of his grip.

“I, ah, I just – look,” John stuttered, trying to figure out what to say. “Do you know someone named Lestrade? Because I was told to ask for him.”

“Oh,” she said, much of the tension disappearing from her posture and a small smile appearing on her face. “The studio manager? I believe he’s meeting with a client right now, but you can wait for him in the lobby.”

“Thanks,” John replied as he was ushered into the comfortable area.

He carefully sat down in one of the modern looking chairs, grateful to take the pressure of his weight off his leg for a while. He looked around, squinting in the slightly dim lighting. The woman who had let him in went back to sitting behind the counter, a little off to the side from the other receptionists, focused on typing something into her laptop.

John was just beginning to settle in when he heard yelling from further down the hallway.

“I told you - he’s coming,” a smooth baritone retorted.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t even told me who ‘he’ is,” another voice replied, exasperated. “If you’re not using the studio right now, I have plenty of other people who’d jump at the chance to get in some extra recording time. Plus, you can’t make Molly wait around. She has work to do, too, you know.”

The protesting man snorted. Then the two people rounded the corner and John froze as Holmes rested his eyes on him, an oddly pleased glint in his eyes. The violinist made a beeline for him, his long coat sweeping out behind him, reminiscent of a cape.

“You’re twenty minutes late,” he said, ignoring the man he had just been arguing with.

“Yes, well, maybe I wouldn’t be late if someone hadn’t stolen my cane,” John retorted, shooting a dirty look at Holmes. “Now, if you would kindly hand over my cane…”

“It’s upstairs, I’m afraid,” Holmes replied, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “It’s just up in studio three.”

John glared at him. Holmes had most certainly left his cane there on purpose. Well, John wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching him cave.

“Would you mind fetching it for me, then?” John asked, false sweetness in his voice. “My leg is completely knackered from trying to limp through London without my cane.”

“Your limp is psychosomatic,” Holmes retorted, smugness now gone from his expression, replaced by mild annoyance.

“That doesn’t mean that it still doesn’t hurt,” John answered.

“Well…” Holmes started, making John nervous as his shrewd eyes flickered to John’s clarinet case. “Why don’t we test that?”

Before John’s mind could even begin to register what was happening, Holmes was sprinting down the hallway, shoving past his confused colleague… With John’s clarinet in his clutches. John gaped at him for a moment, his brain still trying to process everything, before jolting out of his chair and giving chase, heavy footsteps echoing through the halls of the building.

For the first few moments he was fine. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and all he could think about was finding bloody Sherlock Holmes and his clarinet. However, the pain in his leg suddenly reemerged, causing John’s leg to buckle under him, sending him careening into the wall. A strangled gasp escaped from John’s lungs as his shoulder – yes, the one that had been shot not too long ago – was smashed against the hallway wall, sending jolts of pain through his body. He slid down the wall, curling up into a small ball as he tried to reorient himself and manage the pain.

“Oh my _god!_ ” a voice – female, John identified – exclaimed. “Are you alright? – No, stupid question, of course you’re not.”

John still had his eyes squeezed shut, trying to tamp down on the pain he was feeling and nearly jumped out of his sink as he felt small hands on his arm, trying to steady him. He carefully opened his eyes and looked over at his savior. She was fairly petite with large, concerned, brown eyes and mousey brown hair. Her light pink lipstick had clearly been carefully applied, but it looked like it had been smudged slightly sometime after, maybe from worrying her lip too much. She did look like a generally anxious person.

“There’s a studio right around the corner,” she continued, motioning down the hallway. “There’s a couch you can lie down on in the control room. Here, I can help you – ”

“Just let me – ” John started, waving her off as he used the wall for support as he struggled to feet.

However, as soon as he was upright, his leg failed again, and he began to stumble sideways. Thankfully, the woman who had come over to help him caught him, letting out a small grunt as she helped support his (not inconsiderable) weight. It took him a moment, but John managed to regain his balance, although he had to use the poor woman as a crutch much more than he’d like to.

“Do you think you can walk?” the woman asked, the worried look on her face even more prominent now. “It really isn’t far, I promise.”

John nodded, gritting his teeth. He didn’t trust his voice right now. He was pretty sure that if he tried to say anything it would just come out breathy and strangled, and, honestly, the situation was embarrassing enough already. John hated feeling so helpless. He clenched his jaw even tighter and took a step forward, the woman moving with him carefully, holding him back slightly to make sure that he didn’t take things too quickly. Which, knowing John, was probably a good thing.

The mousey woman – he still didn’t know her name yet – guided him around the corner and over to a heavy looking door. She had to adjust her hold on him to open the door, forcing John to put more weight on his injured leg. He managed to stagger through, though, but nearly groaned out loud as he saw the second door. Of course there was a second door. This was a recording studio – the performers didn’t want anyone disturbing their recording. Again, the woman held the door for him and he managed to walk forward on his own, a little pleased that he was a little more graceful this time (less awkward staggering).

He nearly sighed in relief as he saw the plush looking couch at the back of the control room. The kind looking woman took his arm again and helped settle him on the couch. He was initially resistant to lying down, but he soon caved when he realized how much more comfortable it was when he could prop his leg up on the arm of the couch.

“Do you want any ice for your leg?” the woman asked, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth again, smudging her lipstick further. “There’s a fridge right upstairs.”

“Ah, you don’t have to,” John stammered, a red hot blush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. He hated being an invalid. “You’ve already done enough for me. More than enough, actually.”

“It’s no problem,” the woman replied, smiling. “I really don’t have anything else to do right now. I’ll be back in just a moment.”

Before John could say anything else, she was already rushing off, exiting through a different door than the one they’d come through. John sighed and lay back on the couch, staring up at the gray padded ceiling of the control room. He closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts before opening them again, taking in his surroundings. His eyes passed over the recording equipment, examining it curiously. John’s eyes were then drawn to the large glass window covering the wall opposite him, looking out into the actual studio where the musician would be.

John froze. Staring back at him through the window was Sherlock Holmes. Fuck his life. Of all the recording studios to be brought to…

Holmes just smirked as they made eye contact, an expression that made the small hairs on the back of John’s neck stand on end. Holmes’ eyes then broke contact with John’s, flickering over to examine his leg before moving over to his shoulder. John resisted the urge to shiver under the violinist’s scrutinizing gaze, but it was actually quite difficult to remain undisturbed. Being the sole focus of Holmes’ attention was… intense.

Holmes frowned, looking as if John’s injuries were a personal affront to him, reminding John why he hated the arrogant arse so much. The bastard still had his clarinet, too! John considered trying to hobble over and take his clarinet back from the violinist, but vetoed the idea. He’d just end up falling over and making a fool of himself, and he honestly didn’t need to make more of a fool of himself in front of Holmes than he already had.

Oh, and would you just look at that – the smirk was back. John braced himself for whatever rude comment Holmes would make about his condition – or about him in general – or for him to come into the control room in order to properly harass him. But, surprisingly, it never came. Instead, Holmes drew his violin up to his chin (John had somehow not noticed that he had been holding it) and positioned it carefully, poised perfectly to play.

For a moment, the violinist was frozen like that. John almost took a mental picture of the sleek grace of Holmes’ posture, but tamped down on that impulse quickly.

And then Holmes started to play. John initially tensed, his entire body growing almost painfully rigid as he recognized the piece as the clarinet concerto he’d written, modified for violin. The one that Holmes had played the night before. The one that Holmes had mocked him with. The one that…

… the one that sounded almost painfully _beautiful_. The realization was like a punch to the gut. John lay there on the couch, gaping at Holmes. The music washed over him, soothing and wonderful and absolutely _stunning_. The gentle inflections of the notes and the liquid smooth quality of the slurs…

He hadn’t noticed this last night. Oh, he’d noticed that the piece sounded lovely. He’d noticed that Holmes was a good player, but this was… this was _brilliant_. Bloody. Brilliant. The way Holmes’ long, pale fingers maneuvered the fingerboard entranced him – the utter grace of it. It just about took his breath away.

Oh, Holmes knew what he was doing. He was clever – very, very clever. He’d had this planned from the moment he’d grabbed John’s clarinet case. He knew that John would follow, and he knew that his injuries would immobilize him. John was a completely captive audience. And, above all else, he knew that John wouldn’t be able to resist the tantalizing siren song of the music. John might as well have just steered his ship into sharp rocks like some desperate, lovesick sailor.

Lovesick for music, that is. He could do without Holmes. (Sadly, he suspected that music and Holmes were a package deal.)

Just then, the music stopped. Holmes shot John another smug, knowing look, causing John to look away pointedly, pretending to ignore him. John then caught sight of the woman who had helped him earlier coming back through the doorway with two plastic bags filled with ice cubes.

“Here you go,” she said cheerily, holding out the ice awkwardly, unsure if she was able to contort himself enough to place the ice packs where they needed to go.

“Thank you,” John replied, taking them from her and positioning them both on his shoulder. Now that he had his leg up, his body was intent on focusing on the pain in his actually injured shoulder as opposed to his psychosomatically injured leg.

“It’s horrible that you hurt your leg, but, well, on the bright side of things you get to hear Sherlock play,” she said brightly, smiling at Holmes through the glass. “I’m not sure how much you know about classical music, but Sherlock’s one of the best violinists in England – one of the best in the world, actually. It’s always a real treat to hear him play.”

“Oh,” John answered, unsure what exactly he was supposed to say. ‘I know him. He’s the wanker who stole my music and clarinet’? That probably wouldn’t go over too well.

“No need to introduce us, Molly,” a new voice said, lower and a bit more melodious. “We met last night. John, meet Molly Hooper, my recording engineer. Molly, this is John, my composer.”

“Oh!” Molly exclaimed, smiling. “Sherlock’s been going on about your music for the entire week. Of course, I can understand why – it’s quite lovely.”

“Um, well, thank you, but I’m not his composer,” John stuttered, blushing slightly at the praise. “I’m not even a composer, actually – I just write music occasionally. I’m a doctor.”

“Molly quit medical school halfway through her forensic pathology studies to become a recording engineer,” Holmes replied, challenging John subtly. “And there’s nothing preventing you from being both a doctor and a composer.”

“Why do you keep insisting that I compose?” John snapped, glaring at Holmes, feeling a little guilty about the way he made Molly jump.

“Just a few minutes ago, you heard me playing your music,” Holmes started, looking John directly in the eyes. “You liked hearing it. I know you did. So why won’t you let me play it?”

“Because it’s private! And you _stole_ it!” John replied angrily, trying to sit up on the couch. “I’m just here for my clarinet, my cane, and my music.”

“Why is it so important that it’s private?” the violinist demanded, frustration clear in his expression. “What does it matter if everyone hears it or no one hears it?”

“Look, I left that part of my life behind a long time ago,” John answered, sighing. “And maybe my compositions _are_ a bit above average, but nothing’s really going to come from it. Maybe it’ll be popular for a little while, but soon enough it won’t even be used as elevator music. There’s no use dredging up the past if it’s just going to fall right back to where it was.”

“How many people will it take for me to convince you that you’re wrong?” Holmes asked.

For a moment John thought that it was sarcastic or a joke or something, but Holmes’ expression was deadly serious. John let out a huff of laughter at this ridiculous scenario.

“A million,” he threw out, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “When you get a million people to voluntarily listen to my music then we can talk.”

“Consider it done,” Holmes replied before turning his back and walking back towards the recording room. “Your cane, clarinet, and music are under the mixing console.”

And, with that, he left. John let out an annoyed huff. He managed to stand up again from the couch, Molly hovering nearby, ready to (try to) catch him in case he fell. He smiled at her and thanked her before hobbling over to the mixing console and bending over, fishing around until he came up with his possessions. He stood up again, this time with the support of his cane, and was about to leave when he felt a hand on his arm, holding him back.

“What he says is true, you know,” Molly told him, looking at him carefully. “You shouldn’t underestimate yourself.”

“Thanks for the sentiment,” John replied, smiling wryly before walking away, the door to the recording studio closing softly behind him.

\---

John Watson might just be the most frustrating person that Sherlock Holmes had ever met. Well, Mycroft might have him beat, but it was a close call. Very close. Of course, he was incredibly naïve if he thought that telling Sherlock that he had to find one million people to listen to his music would stop him in his pursuits, or even slow him down. He should have said at least fifty million if he wanted Sherlock to really work for it. He already had a fairly simple plan for success, after all. Simple, but it would probably be pretty effective.

He just needed to make a list. A list, and three more people. Irene would do nicely – she was supposed to arrive in London in two days, in fact. The other two… well, he’d have to see about them. He would find someone, though. There was no doubt about that.

Sherlock was so absorbed in his thoughts as he walked through the lobby of Abbey Road Studios that he almost didn’t see Lestrade trying to catch up with him, yelling after him. He paused right in front of the door as Lestrade reached the final stretch of the hallway, skidding to a stop right in front of Sherlock.

“Yes?” Sherlock said impatiently, not bothering to wait for Lestrade to start.

“First of all, what the _bloody hell_ are you doing?” Lestrade demanded, glaring at Sherlock. “Sally just told me that Molly had to help carry that poor bloke you brought in here because he couldn’t run after you without his cane and ended up messing up his leg. What were you even _doing_ stealing his clarinet?”

“Proving a point,” Sherlock replied simply.

“Proving a point?” Lestrade said, incredulous. “What point? That he’s got a bad leg? And what was all that he said about you stealing his cane?”

“I didn’t steal his cane,” Sherlock retorted. “He forgot it at the concert yesterday and I told him that if he wanted it back he could come and get it here.”

“And why the bloody hell didn’t you just bring him his cane?” Lestrade asked, confused. “You would have saved the poor bloke a lot of pain, I’m sure.”

“His limp’s psychosomatic,” Sherlock informed him, looking annoyed.

“Yeah, well, maybe it is, but it probably still hurts,” Lestrade said, glaring at Sherlock now. “You honestly made some poor bloke that you saw at a concert yesterday come all the way over here just so he could get his cane back? And since when do you care about returning people’s belongings, anyway?”

“He’s not just ‘some bloke’ – do keep up, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, frowning. “He’s my composer.”

“Your composer?” Lestrade repeated, lost. “Which one?”

“The one whose music I stole,” Sherlock said simply.

“The one whose music you – Sherlock!” Lestrade exclaimed. “You can’t just go stealing people’s music!”

“I didn’t actually steal it,” Sherlock retorted. “It was lying on the floor of the tube. He only accused me of stealing it because I played it last night.”

Lestrade froze, staring at Sherlock in mild horror.

“Yesterday. With the London Symphony Orchestra,” he said carefully, looking at Sherlock warily. “The one that you said was yours?”

“What else?” Sherlock replied, confirming the fact.

“And now you’re trying to – to what? Steal more of his music?” Lestrade asked angrily, clearly disappointed in Sherlock. “No wonder he stormed out of her in a hurry.”

“The only reason that I said it was mine was so I could find him,” Sherlock responded, exasperated. “Any more of his music that I play will be properly attributed to him.”

“He’s actually letting you play his music after the stunt you pulled?” Lestrade asked, surprised.

“Not yet,” Sherlock answered reluctantly. “But he will.”

“Sherlock, you can’t just do that!” Lestrade protested again, thankful that there were no other people in the lobby at the moment. “If you keep stalking the poor bloke he’ll just report you to the police.”

“I’m not stalking him,” Sherlock scoffed. “And you don’t _understand_. I _need_ to play his music.”

“Sherlock… when this all blows up in your face, I want it documented that I warned you,” Lestrade said slowly, looking at Sherlock carefully. “This is officially out of my division.”

“Molly has recordings of two of his shorter pieces that I made this morning,” Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade’s previous assertion. “Just listen to them. Then maybe you’ll understand.”

Lestrade tried to protest further, but Sherlock had already turned his back and pushed open the door, striding out into the bright sunlight. Sherlock smiled as he hailed a cab, humming the [Devil's Trill Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VR6XJsGOF1s) under his breath and clutching his violin case. He’d win over John. It was just a matter of time.

Right now, he had some favors to call in.

\---

A/N: Here's some pitures of the recording studio Sherlock was in (taken from the Abbey Road Studios official website):

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Tartini's Devil's Trill Sonata that's linked here, my favorite part starts at approximately 7:14, but, of course, the whole thing is good. Oh, Itzhak Pearlman. (*Sighs*). The Vanessa Mae version is good too, but I picture Sherlock liking the Itzhak Pearlman recording better.


	5. Movement Five: Dolce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock always gets what he wants. Most of the time, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my new brit picker/beta reader Lucy and her 'senior beta' (who I suppose would be my 'consulting beta'). This chapter looked a lot worse before the two of them.

John Watson was doing his best not to think about Sherlock Holmes. Surprisingly, he’d had some measure of success. It’d been a whole week since he’d last seen Holmes (a goal which John hoped to extend) and that’d been that. Simple. Holmes was gone – gone from John’s life and he was very, very happy about that fact.

Except that he wasn’t. Happy, that is. Life had become simply… well, boring again. One week – _one_ – and for some inexplicable reason John almost missed Holmes. Keyword being “almost.” He wasn’t quite thatfar gone yet – although his therapist might beg to differ.

It was just that when John had heard Sherlock playing his music in the recording studio… he hadn’t felt so _alive_ in years. Not since before he’d stopped playing. It was all he could think about now, the beautiful sweeping slurs of Holmes’ playing, the soft inflections of the crescendos and decrescendos. He’d find himself humming the music under his breath as he walked to the shop or while he was reading the newspaper in the morning.

It made him want to rip his hair out. Holmes was possibly the most aggravating person that John had ever met – and Harry was his sister. He was just so – so arrogant and… infuriating. John could do what he wanted with his music, thank you very much. He didn’t need some posh git telling him that he had to make his private (note the world _private_ ) compositions public. It wasn’t like the classical music community was missing out on anything, anyway. It was completely laughable that Holmes thought he would be able to find one million people who’d actually bother to listen to his music.

Or, at least, that’s what John had thought. Then he’d gotten the email:

 

To: jhwatson@gmail.com

From: harry-not-harriet@yahoo.co.uk

Subject: OMG!!

 

JOHN!!! y did u not tell me about this vid????

and can u introduce me 2 the oboist? ;)

 

To: harry-not-harriet@yahoo.co.uk

From: jhwatson@gmail.com

Subject: Re: OMG!!

 

What video? And what oboist?

 

To: jhwatson@gmail.com

From: harry-not-harriet@yahoo.co.uk

Subject: Re: OMG!!

 

the one that’s EXPLODED on tumblr! with the music u composed and the hot violinist. is he your bf? ;) nice, lil bro

 

To: harry-not-harriet@yahoo.co.uk

From: jhwatson@gmail.com

Subject: Re: OMG!!

 

I don’t know the video you’re talking about. Also, I’m not gay and I have no boyfriend.

 

To: jhwatson@gmail.com

From: harry-not-harriet@yahoo.co.uk

Subject: Re: OMG!!

 

he must like u to make this video. it’s really sweet! <http://iknowwhatyourconductorlikes.tumblr.com/>

i think it’s the second one that comes up when you click on the video tag

 

“I know what your conductor likes”? What sort of website was _that?_ The name was making John a little nervous. It sounded like some sort of weird porn site. Harry had asked him if he could introduce her to the oboist, and said that the violinist was hot…

But, well, what if it was Holmes? He had to admit, the violinist was maybe, possibly, a little bit attractive. Just maybe. Sort of. He was a real git though, and Harry said that the violinist must like him, so it couldn’t be Holmes. After all, if you like someone you don’t steal their music, cane, and clarinet. Unless you’re in primary school, that is. On the other hand, Holmes _had_ seemed pretty determined to get John’s attention and ultimately his music, and John _had_ said that he’d hand over his music if Holmes could get a million people to listen to it. Posting a video on the internet wasn’t a bad idea if he was trying to reach a large number of people. Maybe John should have demanded a higher number…

Not that a million people would listen to it, even if it was posted on every social networking site known to man.

John sighed, tapping his fingers lightly on his desk as he contemplated actually watching the video. He considered it for a few moments before giving in to his curiosity and clicking on the link his sister had provided him with.

 The website, it looked like some sort of blog, appeared to belong to some kind of oboe fanatic. The pages upon pages of oboe pictures rather gave that away, although John did have to smile at the title. “A Scandal in Berio” was rather clever. Well, as long as they meant Berio as in the Italian composer Luciano Berio. His [Sequenza VII](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kf90X0CNxcI) was one of the most famous pieces for oboe, after all, and Berio’s music was a little scandalous, he supposed, offbeat, modern, and rather atonal sounding. John didn’t personally care for Berio – he preferred something a little more melodious, Fauré and such – but he had to admire Berio at least a little bit for his progressive nature. He did form the first ensemble dedicated to performing contemporary music at Julliard, after all.

John scrolled around a bit, trying to find the video tag that Harry had mentioned. It took a couple of pages, but eventually he was able to find it. He clicked on, going to the second video on the page, as per Harry’s instructions. However, he paused before starting the video, his eyes going wide as he read the title of the post.

“My friend John said that if this gets 1,000,000 notes he’ll let me play the rest of the music he’s composed! Help me show him that his music is BRILLIANT!”

John looked warily down at the number down in the bottom left corner of the post. 982,418. Fuck. Oh, bullocks. This was _not_ good – not good at all.

But wait. Who’s to say this was even his composition anyway? Harriet thought it was his, but the title of the blog post just said “John.” No Watson. Just John. It could be any John for all he knew. John wasn’t exactly the most unique of names, after all.

Of course he was probably just deluding himself. It was too much of a coincidence that someone would say that they needed one million people to listen to a piece of music to get their friend John to give them more of it.

He couldn’t be really, truly certain though. Well, not until he watched the video, that is. Then he’d know. He’d know if the music was his or not, and he’d know if it was Holmes who was playing it. Holmes and… someone else. After all, the only piece of music with an oboe part that he’d written had been a quartet for clarinet, oboe, piano, and cello. He suspected that Holmes was probably the one playing the clarinet part, having modified it from its original form. Clearly the oboist was the one who ran this blog, but what about the others? Who else could Holmes possibly get to go along with this little scheme?

John sighed, placing his face in his hands whilst trying to decide whether or not to actually watch the video. If it really was Holmes then why hadn’t he texted to gloat yet? Well, he certainly would contact John if, or rather when, it reached one million notes, so John didn’t really have to watch the video. He didn’t have to listen to Holmes embarrass himself by playing John Watson’s rather insignificant little composition.

Not that it would really be Holmes embarrassing himself. John’s music was the thing that was embarrassing, after all.

John started playing the video anyway.

The first thing he noticed was that the cinematography was actually quite stunning. Not that he knew much about cinematography and film making, but this was… well, nicer than he expected. Not that he expected someone as uppity as Sherlock Holmes to settle for anything less than perfect aesthetics. The next thing he noticed was that they were filming _in the middle of Piccadilly Circus._

Then, the performers caught John’s eye. Which, really should have been the first thing he noticed. There was Holmes, naturally, still looking as smug and infuriating as ever, and completely unperturbed by the way people passing by where gawking at him, all done up in his tuxedo, hair slicked back neatly. John couldn’t help but feel a little pleased when a ratty looking pigeon started waddling around Holmes’ feet. He hoped it would start pecking at the violinist’s nicely polished shoes.

The next person he observed was the oboist, and yes, he could understand a little bit now, why Harry had wanted him to introduce them. She was quite a relief from the eyesore that was Sherlock Holmes. Not that Holmes was actually an eyesore. There may be a tiny – absolutely _minuscule_ – part of John’s mind that couldn’t help but linger a bit on Holmes’ sharp cheekbones and deft fingers. As John looked over the oboist, though, he had a strange feeling that he’d seen her from somewhere before. He pondered for a moment before a thought came to him. He paused the video, opening a new page in his browser, navigating to Wikipedia and entering a name.

 ** _Irene Adler_** _(born 20 March 1983) is an American oboist. She is regarded as one of the most preeminent oboists of the early 21 st century and works with the most prestigious orchestras worldwide, collaborating with an extensive list including the London Symphony Orchestra, Academy of St. Martin in the Fields, the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and the Royal Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. _

Well. Of course he recognized her – he had a whole CD of her performing various oboe concertos. How in god’s name had Holmes managed to rope her into this? Blackmail? Enough money to buy the whole continent of Australia?

John was very tempted to just bang his head on his desk and stop watching the stupid video. It would be so much simpler if he just stopped watching it, but now he was too curious. There was a part of him – a small part – that was practically jumping up and down in excitement at the thought of _the_ Irene Adler playing his music. Maybe if he just ignored Holmes he could enjoy the video.

But just as John started the video again, he noticed the pianist, and he nearly had another heart attack. He’d thought that Martha Hudson had retired _years_ ago! In fact, he remembered listening to her last performance on repeat for at least a week straight – a beautiful rendition of Gershwin’s [Rhapsody in Blue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1U40xBSz6Dc) with Martin Fröst on clarinet. He’d heard that she was a very sweet person, but she probably hated him now. He’d put very little thought into the piano part, focusing mainly on the clarinet and oboe parts…

And then there was the viola player. John didn’t recognize him immediately. He wasn’t as familiar as Irene Adler or Martha Hudson and if John hadn’t gone to that London Symphony Orchestra concert just a little over a week prior, he probably wouldn’t have recognized him at all. However, he had been there and that viola player was clearly Tobias Gregson – principal violist of the London Symphony Orchestra.

Bloody hell. This was _not_ how this was supposed to go. Holmes was supposed to get too bored and/or frustrated with trying to get a million people to listen to John’s music and give up. He was supposed to move on and just let it go – forget about John. He was _not_ supposed to be so persistent. He was _not_ supposed to get Irene Adler, Martha Hudson, and Tobias Gregson to play John’s music. And, above all, he was _not_ supposed to _win!_

This whole situation was completely insane! It was like a stupid little fairytale, Cinderella or something. Well, except for the fact that John Watson was certainly not a princess. Not. At. All. Sherlock Holmes was no Prince Charming, either. He was more like a dog with a bone than anything: stupidly, single mindedly persistent.

John continued to watch as the music decrescendoed for the last time. His brow furrowed as he noted that there was still a good minute left in the video. Had Holmes added anything to his piece? He would strangle that uppity git if he had, but instead the camera just zoomed in on Holmes’ face. Which, honestly, was kind of disturbing. Not the camera zooming – Holmes’ face.

He looked… awkward and over eager, like some overgrown puppy. The act was almost believable. John might have even bought it, if he hadn’t known what an amoral, rude, entitled wanker Holmes was.

“Erm, hello,” Holmes started, looking completely earnest, which was so bloody fake, John just _knew_ it. “I’d really like to thank you for watching this video – it means a lot to me. You see, my friend John Watson, he’s very shy about his talent for composing music, and I just would like to show him that people really will like his work.

“It just makes me so sad that he thinks he’s not a good composer,” Holmes continued, looking a little teary eyed and John was pretty sure that he could see Gregson trying to hold in his laughter in the background of the shot. “So please, tell all your friends about his video. Spread the word, so I can show John that people love his music!”

John sighed again in frustration as the video finished. He then noticed that there was a link to the video on YouTube. Fuck. Tentatively, he clicked on the link. He kept trying to tell himself that the YouTube video couldn’t have that many views – everyone had already seen it on Tumblr. Really there was no point in checking it…

1,001,845 views.

Bollocks.

John stared at the view counter for a few moments, eyes wide. Then he carefully pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and sent a simple text:

Fine. You win. JW

\---

Sherlock Holmes was in a wonderful mood. He hadn’t felt this pleased with himself since he’d managed to produce a sound on his violin that was so high pitched it broke Mycroft’s favourite set of wineglasses. Mycroft liked to tell people that Sherlock was twelve when that had happened. Truthfully, it was when he was twenty two. There was a reason Mycroft refused to host Christmas dinner any more.

This, though… this might even be a little bit better than that Christmas. Pissing off Mycroft was fun, but John Watson… he was positively _delightful_. The fact that Sherlock could still describe the composer as “delightful” after knowing him for a week was probably the best part of it all. He knew, logically, that it wasn’t likely to last much longer, but the fact that John had made it a whole week without Sherlock growing bored of him was quite a feat.

The text he’d received the previous night had, quite honestly, surprised him – and that was not something that happened all too often. John had seemed perfectly content to ignore him completely and yet he’d so openly given up.

No, given up wasn’t quite the right term. Oh, he’d certainly surrendered, but he hadn’t just rolled over. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sherlock supposed that he should have been able to guess that John would react in such a way. He was, after all, a very prideful person – that was abundantly clear. By texting Sherlock he’d surrendered on his own terms. It was still a surrender, of course, but he’d been able to save a certain amount of dignity by contacting Sherlock before he contacted John.

It was a charming little chess match they had going, Sherlock thought contentedly, with him as the winner. Naturally. He would get what he wanted in the end, but he had a feeling that John would make him work for it. Even so, something told him that the chase would be worth it.

Sherlock’s grin was practically splitting his face in two as he bounded up the stairs to 221B Baker Street, and it wasn’t until he had his scarf hung on the coat stand next to the door and his long coat halfway off that he realised that there was someone else in the flat.

“You’re looking pleased, now aren’t you?” Irene said, a secretive smile curling her perfectly painted lips as she looked over at Sherlock from where she lay sprawled across the couch.

Sherlock’s grin faded, a slightly annoyed look on his face. He finished taking off his coat and walked over to the kitchen, not bothering to dignify Irene with an answer.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, now,” Irene called after him, looking slightly smugger than before. “It’s your little composer, isn’t it?”

Sherlock continued to ignore her, back turned as he went about making tea, very pointedly not making any for Irene. Maybe if he just ignored her she’d leave.

“Oh, come now. I promise not to steal him,” Irene continued, turning onto her side, so that she could see Sherlock in the kitchen better. “Not personally, at least. You know I don’t swing that way. Professionally, on the other hand… I can see why you want to lock him away in a tower and make him write music for you for the rest of eternity.”

“Is that why you’re here, then?” Sherlock asked, giving into Irene’s incessant verbal prodding.

“Oooh, you’re defensive today, aren’t you?” Irene replied, her knowing smirk widening. “Is he gorgeous?”

“I will not dignify that with an answer,” Sherlock replied curtly, stirring a small amount of sugar into his tea.

“So he _is_ ,” Irene said, and if she weren’t so pristine, Sherlock could almost image her giggling at his expense right now.

“Look, the only thing that matters to me is the _work_ ,” Sherlock snapped, turning to glare at Irene who was still looking far too smug for his taste.

“Oh, we both know that that isn’t entirely true, now is it, Sherlock?” Irene said, her voice falsely sweet, annoyingly collected and utterly controlling. “You’re lucky I’m not overly sensitive, or I might take offence at that comment. I’m not just _work_ , am I?”

“Well, I’ve never slept with you,” Sherlock muttered, digging his laptop out from under a pile of miscellaneous violin strings.

“You’ve never slept with a woman in your entire life,” Irene replied, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “That statement also implies that Mrs. Hudson falls under the work category, which is clearly untrue.”

“You break into my flat and steal my sofa,” Sherlock retorted, his tone almost petulant. “If I had it my way, we’d never see each other outside of work.”

“Is that why you called me up on Monday practically begging me to drop everything I had planned to make a music video with you?” Irene asked, still lounging about on Sherlock’s sofa like a very contented cat.

Sherlock scowled at her.

“I thought not,” Irene said. “Hmmm. Maybe _I’m_ the one who should be worried about this new composer of yours. Are you replacing me?”

“What is there to replace?” Sherlock scoffed, typing his password into his computer, not bothering to look over at the oboist.

“The title of Sherlock Holmes’ Only Friend in the World,” Irene shot back, picking up a discarded violin bow off of the coffee table and running her fingers across the bow hairs, her fingers coming back slightly sticky. “How much rosin did you put on this?”

“Don’t touch that. It’s for an experiment!” Sherlock demanded, shooting her another glare.

“You still have a rosin fetish, then?” she asked teasingly, but she placed the bow back down on the table anyway.

“It’s not a fetish,” Sherlock grumbled. “I’m merely attempting to determine the effects of varying types of rosin on white horsehair bows versus black horsehair.”

“You do realize that it’s never been scientifically proven that white hair makes a smoother sound than black,” Irene replied, eyeing the bow again but not picking it up.

Sherlock didn’t reply. They remained in silence for a few moments, Irene merely examining the bow while Sherlock clicked through his computer, checking the YouTube video with John’s music to see how many views it’d gotten. A smile began creeping back onto his face as he saw that the view count had surpassed a million, but he stiffened as he felt Irene appear behind him, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the computer screen.

“You know, a million views is not necessarily synonymous with a million viewers,” Irene noted, placing a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as she leaned over him.

“I know that, but John doesn’t,” Sherlock replied, a touch petulant.

“Are you sure of that?” Irene asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“He already texted his surrender,” Sherlock said simply, brushing Irene’s hand off of his shoulder.

“Has he?” she said, clearly a little surprised. “Did your lovely little speech at the end sway him?”

“That’s highly improbable,” Sherlock scoffed, closing the tab in his internet browser with the music video and opening a new one, navigating to his own blog – the Science of Musicality. “He would have known that I wasn’t sincere. The fact that anyone at all believed me is rather laughable.”

“Oh, I’m not sure about that,” Irene replied, and Sherlock could almost hear the laugh in her voice. “You can be a fairly good actor when you want to be. I’m sure the fake tears at the end helped. Maybe you should start doing videos encouraging people to save the polar bears or something.”

“Polar bears are completely irrelevant to my daily life. Why would I want to save them?” Sherlock asked, looking nonplussed.

“I wonder how long it’ll be before poor little John is running for the hills,” Irene sighed, walking back over to the sofa and sprawling over it again. “It’s a bit of a pity that you had to be the one to find him.”

“If he’s so easily scared off then there’s no point in having him at all,” Sherlock answered, typing away on his laptop. “I don’t like people who are so feeble minded.”

“Sherlock, to you _everyone_ is feeble minded,” Irene replied. “Well, except for me.”

“Oh, no. You’re feeble minded, too,” Sherlock grumbled, not even bothering to look over at Irene.

“I think I’ll have to remember that comment next time you want me to play [Peter and the Wolf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctsWdUaHsHM) with you,” Irene shot back, otherwise unperturbed.

Sherlock frowned at her but didn’t say anything in reply.

“So, when do I get to meet him?” Irene asked, toying with her phone.

“You don’t,” Sherlock replied simply, his words slightly clipped.

Irene paused a moment, typing something quickly into her phone, a small smile curling her red lips, her contentedness putting Sherlock slightly on edge.

“No, I think I do,” she said, looking back over at Sherlock with a smirk and holding up her phone.

Correction: _his_ phone. Sherlock had to reign in his urge to immediately check his coat pockets in an effort to not look like an oblivious buffoon. She must have taken it when she was leaning over him to look at his laptop. It was such an amateur mistake, letting his guard down around her. Irene merely smiled at him and tossed the phone over to him. Sherlock glared at her again, but he managed to catch the phone securely. He scrolled through the recent text messages, trying to figure out what she’d done.

Meet me at 221B Baker Street, noon tomorrow. SH

Fine. JW


	6. Movement Six: Con Brio (Brioso)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John surrenders - perhaps more so than he had planned to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been forever since my last update! I will not bore you with my excuses, but you should know that this chapter is unedited/brit picked, as my beta has not yet responded, despite the fact that I sent out a copy of this chapter about a week ago. Anyway. Bear with me, please.

John H. Watson stood in front of 221B Baker Street apprehensively, trying to resist the urge to turn tail and run. It certainly wasn’t often that the urge came over John. In fact, he could only recall two times before when he’d ever felt anything like this – the first time was before his first ever clarinet recital way back when he was still in primary school and the second time was the first time he lost a patient out in the bloody sand dunes of Afghanistan. 

Compared to both of those events, surrendering himself to Sherlock Holmes should be nothing. Except that it _wasn’t_. Somehow it felt like much more than that. A small voice in the back of John’s mind kept telling him that once he gave himself up here his life would be irreversibly changed forever. John snorted to himself at that thought, trying to banish it from his mind, reminding himself how utterly ridiculous it was. 

“Holmes will only have as much influence over you as you give him, John Watson,” the doctor muttered under his breath, trying to refocus himself. 

Somehow that felt wrong, though. Holmes was like a Fact. No matter how much you tried to deny him, the truth of him wouldn’t change. No matter how much John tried to ignore him, he’d still be there, nagging at his subconscious. Really, it was better to just face him, John rationalized. That way he could minimize the damage that Holmes the Hurricane caused. 

The former army doctor sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes for a little longer than a standard blink before opening them again and holding up his hand to knock on the door. However, before his fist could actually connect with the wood, the door swung open, revealing Holmes. John almost stumbled into him in surprise, but managed to catch himself before his fist started tapping on Holmes’ chest instead. 

“Good, you’re here,” Holmes greeted curtly, looking strangely harried. “There’s this quaint little Italian restaurant I know of not too far from here – ”

Holmes brushed by the clarinetist, leaving John more than a little confused at the violinist’s odd behavior. Holmes was normally odd, but he always seemed so collected. Well, except for that time that John had punched him, but that was a special circumstance. Holmes was acting more like a fugitive than anything as he flagged a taxi, looking up and down the street carefully before opening the door and motioning for John to get in after him. John followed with some apprehension, but made no comment about Holmes’ strange behavior as they drove away from 221B Baker Street. 

“You know, you could have always asked me to just meet you at this restaurant,” John said after a moment, breaking the silence. 

The violinist gave him a sideways glance, studying him carefully for a moment, his piercing eyes more than a little unnerving as they bore into him. 

“A friend of mine dropped in unexpectedly and I didn’t wish to disturb her,” Holmes replied, looking away from John again, his tone infused with an unexpected tension. 

“Oh. Is she your girlfriend, then?” John asked, trying to ease the awkwardness of the conversation. 

Not that he could ever imagine someone like Holmes actually caring about whether or not he disturbed someone. Much less having a girlfriend. Then again, his special attitude might be reserved just for washed out army doctors who composed in their free time. (Yeah, right.)

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area,” Holmes answered, blinking at John in slight confusion. 

“Alright. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way,” John continued, hoping to make some sort of connection in this stiff, jolted dialogue. 

He would have to work with this git for an indeterminate amount of time. Might as well try to create something approaching a civil relationship in the meantime so he wouldn’t end up committing murder sometime down the line. 

“I know it’s fine,” Holmes said, with perhaps a little more tension than before. Oops. 

“So you’ve got a boyfriend?” John tried again.

“No,” Holmes replied, his tone a little snappish, make John’s cheeks color a bit in indignation. He really was just trying to create a nice bit of conversation here!

“Right. Okay. You’re unattached. Like me. Fine. Good,” John rambled, his face still red as he stumbled over his words, unwilling to put the dying exchange out of its misery, mostly just to show Holmes that he wasn’t so easily deterred. 

Just because he’d surrendered didn’t mean he was going to let the uppity violinist trample over him as he pleased. However, when Holmes looked back over at him, he had a strange, almost shocked look on his face. Not the sort of humbled shock John was looking for, though. It was something more along the lines of flattered embarrassment, and John idly noticed that the tips of Holmes’ ears had acquired a nice, even shade of light pink. 

“John, as flattered as I am by your – erm, _interest_ , you should know that I intended for this to be a strictly professional meeting – ” Holmes began, his speech awkward and fumbling in a way John had never imagined hearing it. 

Not that he’d spent much time imagining anything about Holmes. It was, however, vaguely amusing to see the normally pristine violinist so flustered. Until John realized what he was trying to say, that is.

“Wha – I’m not gay!” John exclaimed, embarrassed. “That’s not – I didn’t mean – Jesus, I’d sooner punch you again than _date_ you!”

The pink disappeared from Holmes’ face and a scowl replaced his previous expression, his icy eyes like little daggers as he glared at John before turning away again to look out the window of the cab. This conversation really wasn’t going as John hoped it would. Not. At. All. 

“We’ve arrived,” the violinist announced stiffly as the cab came to a stop in front of a small Italian restaurant with a sign that said “Angioli’s” in flowing cursive over the glass windows at the front of the building. 

John frowned as he stumbled out of the cab with all the coordination of a newborn calf, biting back a curse as his cane got caught briefly in a grate in the street right outside the cab door. He yanked the end of his cane free with perhaps more force than necessary, which propelled him in the opposite direction a little more than he’d planned. The clarinet player nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt a gloved hand rest itself between his shoulder blades, steadying him and saving him the embarrassment of falling on his arse in the middle of the street. 

Then again, he might have preferred that to accepting help from Sherlock bloody Holmes. 

“Thank you,” John muttered reluctantly once he’d regained his balance fully, hauling himself up onto the sidewalk and out of the street. 

The violinist shot him an unreadable look before brushing ahead of him and making a beeline for the door to the restaurant, John limping after him. However, to John’s surprise, instead of just breezing on into the restaurant, the violinist paused for a moment before stepping back and _holding open the door_. John blinked at him stupidly for a moment as Holmes stared back impassively. John tried to force out a simple “thank you” but couldn’t quite bring himself to, instead just smiling weakly at Holmes before continuing on through the door. 

“Sherlock!” someone exclaimed suddenly, startling John slightly. 

An Italian looking man with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and a full beard was suddenly next to the violinist, grasping his hand in a friendly handshake as John looked on in confusion. 

“How’s the lovely lady doing?” the man asked cheerily, still not seeming to have noticed John standing awkwardly off to the side. 

“Quite well,” Holmes replied, the closest thing John had ever seen to his real smile emerging almost shyly. 

“I thought you said you didn’t have a girlfriend,” John blurted, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth, particularly the way they drew the new man’s attention to him. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry to interrupt you two!” the man apologized, looking between the violinist and the clarinetist. “Sherlock, you should have told me you were on a date – or at least introduced me to your young man.” 

John opened his mouth to protest that he was by no stretch of the imagination Holmes’ “young man” however the Italian man kept of talking. 

“You don’t have anything to worry about, though,” the man said, addressing John directly now. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

“Angelo is my luthier,” Holmes explained. “I took my Stradivarius in for repair a few weeks ago.” 

“ _Violette_ ,” Angelo clarified, smiling. “Named her after his mother. Isn’t that sweet?”

John looked over at Holmes in surprise, who scowled at him, clearly embarrassed. Well, it looked like even the most frustrating of wankers had a soft spot for their mothers. Who knew?

“Well, Sherlock,” Angelo continued, clapping the violinist on the shoulder, “I’ll let you get back to your date, then. Oh, and I’ll get my cousin to bring out a candle for you two. It’ll make it more romantic.”

Angelo then winked badly at Sherlock and went off to – presumably – procure a “romantic” candle, ignoring John’s protestations of “I’m not his date!” The violinist, on the other hand, merely walked over to a cozy looking booth in the corner of the restaurant next to the large glass windows. John scowled after him, annoyed at how he hadn’t bothered to correct Angelo, but followed after him with a sigh, sitting down across from Holmes stiffly. 

A waiter came by a moment later and placed a candle on their table. John tried not to commit murder. It was a close thing. 

“You’re paying,” John muttered, his face hidden behind his menu. 

Holmes didn’t reply. John hoped that that meant he agreed. The waiter came back and they ordered – well, John ordered. Holmes just asked for a cup of earl gray. John gave him a raised eyebrow, but made no other comment. 

“Holmes – ” John started after a moment of sitting together in awkward silence. 

“Sherlock,” the violinist interrupted, his unnerving blue-green eyes focused intensely on John. “Call me Sherlock.” 

“I – okay,” John replied, thrown off balance. “Sherlock.”

Something unreadable flashed across the violinist’s face, but it was gone so quickly that John was unsure if it’d actually been there at all.

“So, how exactly did you want this to work out?” John asked, his mouth still feeling a little strange from saying “Sherlock.” 

“This?” the musician – _Sherlock_ said, one eyebrow raised in question. 

“This… arrangement,” John replied, unsure exactly how to describe their situation. “Do you want me to just mail you the music as I compose it, or…?”

“Well, I figured that you could start by moving in,” Sherlock answered. 

John gaped at him like a fish out of water. 

“I – ” he finally began once he’d regained the ability to form words again, only to be cut off once again. 

“Sherlock, darling, there you are!” another strange voice exclaimed, this time a woman’s. 

Sherlock had completely frozen for a moment upon hearing the woman’s voice before a truly unpleasant scowl plastered itself across his face. John turned around, curious to see who could elicit such a response from the violinist, only to come face to face with a stunningly beautiful woman. A woman who he, surprisingly, recognized. 

“Irene,” the violinist greeted her stiffly.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she replied, unaffected by Sherlock’s coldness. “You didn’t honestly think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?”

Once again, John was more than a little confused, but not terribly annoyed at being ignored. Of course, that was when Irene Adler – oboist extraordinaire – turned to inspect him. 

“Although I have to say,” she drawled slowly, her eyes raking over John in a way that made him want to cross his arms over his chest self consciously, “I can see why you wanted to keep him to yourself. He must look positively dashing in uniform. Tell me, John – do you have any interesting scars?”

John was caught off guard, not expecting her to address him directly, much less with such a question. He opened his mouth to tell her that it honestly wasn’t any of her business, blushing bright red, only to be cut off by Sherlock. 

“Bullet wound to the shoulder,” Sherlock said dismissively, as if the clarinetist wasn’t sitting right across from him.

“Which one?” Irene asked, still looking at John contemplatively. “No – don’t answer that. It’s clearly the left.”

“How – ?” John blurted, gaping openly now, still incredibly red. “You know what, I don’t need to know. I don’t _want_ to know.”

Except he did. He really, _really_ did want to know. If it was anything like when he and Sherlock first met, with all those brilliant deductions, it was sure to be incredible. He looked down at his water, taking a drawn out sip and purposefully avoiding the violinist’s piercing gaze. 

“You know, I don’t mean to be rude, but if you two are just going to gossip about me without actually telling me anything, I’d be perfectly happy to leave you in peace and just go back to my flat – ” John continued, his tone snippy as he swallowed his water roughly. 

“Your little bedsit – that’s just what I was talking about,” Sherlock interrupted, very pointedly ignoring Irene who paid him no mind and left to pull a chair over from another table. “You can’t stay there anymore.”

“What do you mean I can’t stay there anymore?” John asked, thoroughly confused. 

“I looked up the building online yesterday. It’s a dreadful little place, structurally unsound in at least three places,” Sherlock continued breezily, waving his hand in dismissal. “It won’t do to have you staying there. I work twenty four – seven and I’ll need you on call at all hours – ”

“ _On call? _” John sputtered, staring wide eyed at the violinist.__

__“Yes, on call. You were a doctor – you must know the concept,” Sherlock replied condescendingly, looking unimpressed._ _

__“I know what it means! I just don’t – ” John answered, voice sharp as he narrowed his eyes at the man sitting across from him._ _

__“Oh, John, you _really_ didn’t understand what you were getting into when you agreed to this, did you?” Irene cut in, looking at the clarinet player with what was almost pity, but in John’s opinion came out a bit more like inappropriate amusement. _ _

__“John, my work, it never stops,” Sherlock carried on, ignoring Irene’s knowing look. “I can’t let it stop. Stopping my work means letting my brain rot. Even now, I’ve hit something of a roadblock, or, rather, I had before I found your compositions.”_ _

__“Well, yes, I can give you new compositions, but I don’t see how – ” John replied, frustrated and exasperated._ _

__“He wants you to move in with him so that he can wake you up at odd hours to supply him with his next hit of music,” Irene translated, her unnerving gaze still fixed on John and utterly unreadable._ _

__The way the violinist stiffened slightly at the oboist’s words was not lost on John, although he couldn’t think of why her words would bother him. He would say that it was the blunt way Irene had phrased it, but Sherlock was plenty blunt himself…_ _

__“I have an extra bedroom in my flat,” Sherlock said after a momentary pause. “I’m also willing to pay you a monthly fee for your compositions and the time spent editing them with me during the day.”_ _

__John opened his mouth to reject the absurd proposition, but the words caught in his throat and he reluctantly held his tongue, giving himself just a little longer to assess the violinist’s offer. It was… actually quite tempting, the longer he thought about it. Composing was always what he’d dreamed of doing, and with his current unemployed state honestly any job would be good. Not to mention that Sherlock wasn’t wrong in what he’d said about the tiny bedsit John had been staying in ever since he’d been invalided back from Afghanistan._ _

__“How much?” John asked, licking his chapped bottom lip. “How much would you be willing to pay me for my… services?”_ _

__A smile spread across the violinist’s face, his eyes lighting up eerily._ _

__“Name your price,” was Sherlock’s simple reply._ _

__\---_ _

__Sherlock Holmes was feeling rather pleased with himself as he stepped out of the cab and onto the curb in front of 221B Baker Street. There was almost a spring in his step as he sauntered up to the door, his long, elegant coat swishing softly behind him. However, the self satisfied smile on his face lessened as he realized that the telltale clicking of high heels on concrete behind him was missing._ _

__“Sherlock!” Irene called to him through the cab’s open window, smirking at him as he turned to look at her. “I’ll be going with John, considering my hotel’s in the same direction. I can drop by tomorrow to chat more.”_ _

__The violinist opened his mouth to reply, to protest, but the cab was already pulling away from the curb and into the dimly lit streets of London. He scowled to himself, his good mood evaporating around him. What Irene had said was a blatant lie – her hotel wasn’t anywhere near John’s bedsit. He’d been happy that he’d managed to control her as well as he had during dinner, but now that she had John in a little space where he couldn’t escape she’d be sure to sink her claws in._ _

__His bad mood renewed, Sherlock stalked up the stairs to his flat. His footsteps echoed sharply off the walls. The musician pulled open the door to 221B, tugging off his navy cashmere scarf and long coat and hanging them up next to the door. He grabbed his silk bathrobe off the nearest armchair and pulled it on, letting it hang loosely around his body, not bothering to tie it, before slumping down on the sofa. He stared up at the ceiling, his hands clasped over his chest as his mind raced._ _

__He couldn’t help but wonder what Irene was doing to his composer at the moment. Sherlock could see them in his mind already, the oboist leaning in too close, her hand on John’s knee as she spoke lowly into his ear, words the cabbie certainly couldn’t decipher. He couldn’t help but wonder about John’s reaction to her closeness. Would he lean away from her, uncomfortable and awkward as he was earlier, blushing bright red? Or would he lean into her touch, embrace her whispered words?_ _

__Would his pulse quicken? Would his breathing become shallower? Would his pupils dilate? Would he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue as he had earlier, or would he bite them until they were red, as the state of them had clearly suggested he did as a nervous habit? Would his hands tremor as they did when he held his cane, or would they freeze, stock still as they had when he’d confronted Sherlock for the first time, yelling about plagiarism?_ _

__Sherlock let out a gasping breath, squeezing his eyes shut and running his fingers roughly through his dark, curly hair. He tried to banish the images from his mind, trying to find something, _anything_ else to think of. _ _

__The images vanished, ruthlessly deleted from his hard drive, but it wasn’t enough. (It was never enough, not when he let Irene get to him like this.) The seductive words – the ones he was sure she’d say – echoed through his head: _What do you really know about Sherlock Holmes?_ and _I could help you, you know._ _ _

___I could tell you everything you’d ever want to know about him._ and _I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours._ _ _

__He wouldn’t be the first man, or woman, to fall for Irene, but for once Sherlock didn’t want him to. Irene had no business messing with what was rightfully his – with what he earned fairly and with no small effort on his part. He’d _won_ John Watson and he was very well going to keep him!_ _

__John had practically sold him his soul, after all._ _

__\---_ _

__John H. Watson was feeling very, very uncomfortable._ _

__“Oh, don’t be shy,” Irene’s coy voice encouraged, her smile just as knowing and unnerving as always._ _

__The fact that she was a grand total of five centimeters away from him didn’t help much with how horribly awkward he was feeling as he tried to force out a coherent answer._ _

__“I don’t – I’ve told you, I’m not gay!” he protested, his face already hot with his intense blush._ _

__“Come now. You don’t have to be gay to be attracted to Sherlock Holmes,” she replied, her perfectly manicured nails scratching lightly against the back seat of the cab. “You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it: that long pale throat of his, those cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them, his violinist’s hands – ”_ _

__John swallowed thickly, his cheeks still flaming, growing hotter and hotter by the moment._ _

__“ – and he’s _obsessed_ with you, you know that,” Irene continued. “It’s not just your music, either. If that’s all that he wanted he’d have just had you send him every new piece you wrote.”_ _

__“I’m not – he’s – no! No! You’re misreading the situation – ” John stammered, turning his head to look out the cab window so that he wouldn’t have to see her mischievous eyes on him, tracking his every movement._ _

__A pale finger trailed over his jaw before suddenly applying a sharp pressure, forcing him to look back at her, his head dipping down in a submissive posture, guided there by Irene’s grip on his chin._ _

__“What is it about you?” she asked, but from the tone of her voice John wasn’t quite sure if it was directed at him or merely rhetorical. “What is so _special_ about you?”_ _

__Her thumb traced over his bottom lip, his clarinet playing embouchure reflexively starting to form in response to the pressure, causing Irene’s smile to widen. John couldn’t help but shiver slightly, a movement which he knew did not escape the oboist’s notice. He jerked back from her grasp abruptly, his back hitting the cab door._ _

__“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?” Irene said, her eyes calculating, but her smile still firmly in place._ _

__“Look, I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea about me,” John replied, glancing up at the cabbie who was glaring at them. Clearly he couldn’t hear the actual conversation and thought that they were just messing around in the back of his cab. “I don’t know what Sherlock has told you, but I’m not special. I’m not special, and I’m not in love with him, and the only reason I’m going along with all of this is because I’m getting paid for it, okay?”_ _

__He didn’t bother to wait for her to reply though, having noticed that the cab had come to a stop. John fumbled with the door handle, shoving the door open and stumbling out onto the curb. He took a step away before realizing that his cane was still in the cab. The clarinetist turned around with a frustrated sigh to find Irene holding out his cane. He watched her warily, but too the cane. She made no protest._ _

__“You’re wrong, you know,” Irene said, once he’d turned his back again. “You’re not just doing it for the money.”_ _

__John walked away, refusing to gratify her with a response. He couldn’t help wondering if what she said was true._ _


End file.
